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LETTERS  FROM  HELL 


TRANSLATED    BY 


A.    C.    KOLLMYER, 


WITH  A  PREFACE  BY 


GEORGE     MACDONALD,     LL.D, 


,  OHCGOii. 


NEW  YORK: 
HUNTER,    ROBINSON    &    CO. 

3  EAST  I4TH  STREET. 

1889. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1889,  by 

HUNTER,  ROBINSON  <fe  CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


PREFACE. 


THE  book,  of  which  this  is  an  English  rendering, 
appeared  in  Denmark  eighteen  years  ago,  and  was 
speedily  followed  by  an  English  translation,  now  long 
out  of  print.  In  Germany  it  appeared  very  recently  in 
a  somewhat  modified  form,  and  has  there  aroused  almost 
unparalleled  interest,  running,  I  am  told,  through  up- 
wards of  twelve  editions  in  the  course  of  a  year.  The 
present  English  version  is  made  from  this  German 
version,  the  translator  faithfully  following  the  author's 
powerful  conception,  but  pruning  certain  portions,  recast- 
ing certain  others,  and  omitting  some  less  interesting  to 
English  readers,  in  the  hope  of  rendering  such  a  recep- 
tion and  appreciation  as  the  book  in  itself  deserves,  yet 
more  probable  in  this  country. 

It  may  be  interesting  to  some  to  know  that  the  title  is 
not  quite  a  new  one,  for  just  before  the  death  of  Oliver 
Cromwell  a  book  was  published  entitled  Messages  from 
Hell;  or  Letters  from  a  Lost  Soul.  This  I  have  not  had 
the  opportunity  of  looking  into ;  but  it  must  be  a 
remarkable  book,  I  do  not  say,  if  it  equals,  but  if  it 
comes  half-way  toward  the  fearful  interest  of  this 
volume. 


My  sole  motive  towards  offering  to  write  a  preface  to 
the  present  form  of  the  work  was  my  desire  to  have  it 
read  in  this  country.  In  perusing  the  German  a  few 
months  ago,  I  was  so  much  impressed  with  its  imagina- 
tive energy,  and  the  power  of  truth  in  it,  that  I  felt  as  if, 
other  duties  permitting,  I  would  gladly  have  gone 
through  the  no  slight  labor  of  translating  it  myself; — 
labor  I  say,  because  no  good  work  can  be  done  in  any 
field  of  literature  without  genuine  labor  ;  and  one  of  the 
common  injuries  between  countries  is  the  issue  of 
unworthy  translation.  That  the  present  is  of  a  very 
different  kind,  the  readers  of  it  will  not  be  slow  to 
acknowledge. 

I  would  not  willingly  be  misunderstood  :  when  I  say 
the  book  is  full  of  truth,  I  do  not  mean  either  truth  of 
theory  or  truth  in  art,  but  something  far  deeper  and 
higher — the  realities  of  our  relations  to  God  and  man 
and  duty — all,  in  short,  that  belongs  to  the  conscience. 
Prominent  among  these  is  the  awful  verity,  that  we  make 
our  fate  in  unmaking  ourselves  ;  that  men,  in  defacing 
the  image  of  God  in  themselves,  construct  for  them- 
selves a  world  of  horror  and  dismay  ;  that  of  the  outer 
darkness  our  own  deeds  and  character  are  the  informing 
or  inwardly  creating  cause  ;  that  if  a  man  will  not  have 
God,  he  never  can  be  rid  of  his  weary  and  hateful  self. 

Concerning  the  theological  forms  into  which  the 
writer's  imaginations  fall,  I  do  not  care  to  speak  either 
for  or  against  them  here.  My  hope  from  the  book  is, 
that  it  will  rouse  in  some  the  prophetic  imagination,  so 
that  even  from  terror  they  may  turn  to  the  Father  of 


Lights,  from  whom  alone  come  all  true  theories,  as  well 
as  every  other  good  and  perfect  gift.  One  thing,  in  this 
regard,  alone  I  would  indicate — the  faint,  all  but  inaudi- 
ble tone  of  possible  hope,  ever  and  anon  vanishing  in 
the  blackness  of  despair,  that  now  and  then  steals  upon 
the  wretched  soul,  and  a  little  comforts  the  heart  of  the 
reader  as  he  gathers  the  frightful  tale. 

But  there  is  one  growing  persuasion  of  the  present 
age  which  I  hope  this  book  may  somewhat  serve  to  stem 
— not  by  any  argument,  but  by  such  a  healthy  upstirring, 
as  I  have  indicated  already,  of  the  imagination  and  the 
conscience.  In  these  days,  when  men  are  so  gladly 
hearing  afresh  that  "  in  Him  is  no  darkness  at  all ; " 
that  God  therefore  could  not  have  created  any  man  if 
He  knew  that  he  must  live  in  torture  to  all  eternity  ; 
and  that  his  hatred  to  evil  cannot  be  expressed  by  in- 
justice, itself  the  one  essence  of  evil, — for  certainly  it 
would  be  nothing  less  than  injustice  to  punish  infinitely 
what  was  finitely  committed,  no  sinner  being  capable  of 
understanding  the  abstract  enormity  of  what  he  does, — 
in  these  days  has  arisen  another  falsehood — less,  yet 
very  perilous  :  thousands  of  half-thinkers  imagine  that, 
since  it  is  declared  with  such  authority  that  hell  is  not 
everlasting,  there  is  then  no  hell  at  all. 

I  confess  that,  while  I  hold  the  book  to  abound  in 
right  genuine  imagination,  the  art  of  it  seems  to  me  in 
one  point  defective  : — not  being  cast  in  the  shape  of  an 
allegory,  but  in  that  of  a  narrative  of  actual  facts — 
many  of  which  I  feel  might,  may  be  true — the  presence 
of  pure  allegory  in  parts,  and  forming  inherent  portion 


of  the  whole,  is,  however  good  the  allegory  in  itself,  dis- 
tinctly an  intrusion,  the  presence  of  a  foreign  body. 
For  instance,  it  is  good  allegory  that  the  uttering  of  lies 
on  earth  is  the  fountain  of  a  foul  river  flowing  through 
hell ;  but  in  the  presentation  of  a  real  hell  of  men  and 
women  and  misery,  the  representation  of  such  a  river, 
with  such  an  origin,  as  actually  flowing  through  the 
frightful  region,  is  a  discord,  greatly  weakening  the  just 
verisimilitude.  But  this  is  the  worst  fault  I  have  to  find 
with  it,  and  cannot  do  much  harm  ;  for  the  virtue  of  the 
book  will  not  be  much  weakened  thereby  :  and  its  mis- 
sion is  not  to  answer  any  question  of  the  intellect,  to 
please  the  fancy,  or  content  the  artistic  faculty,  but  to 
make  righteous  use  of  the  element  of  horror ;  and  in 
this,  so  far  as  I  know,  it  is  unparalleled.  The  book  has 
a  fearful  title,  and  is  far  more  fearful  than  its  title  ;  but 
if  it  help  to  turn  any  away  from  that  which  alone  is 
really  horrible,  the  doing  of  unrighteousness,  it  will 
prove  itself  the  outcome  of  a  divine  energy  of  deliverance. 

For  my  part,  believing  with  my  whole  heart  that  to 
know  God  is,  and  alone  is,  eternal  life,  and  that  he  only 
knows  God  who  knows  Jesus  Christ,  I  would  gladly, 
even  by  a  rational  terror  of  the  unknown  probable,  rouse 
any  soul  to  the  conscicusness  that  it  does  not  know  Him, 
and  that  it  must  approach  Him  or  perish. 

The  close  of  the  book  is,  in  every  respect, — in  that  of 
imagination,  that  of  art,  that  of  utterance, — altogether 
admirable,  and  in  horror  supreme.  Let  him  who  shuns 
the  horrible  as  a  thing  in  art  unlawful,  take  heed  that  it 
be  not  a  thing  in  fact  by  him  cherished  ;  that  he  neither 


PREFACE.  vu 

plant  nor  nourish  that  root  of  bitterness  whose  fruit  must 
be  horror — the  doing  of  wrong  to  his  neighbor  ;  and 
least  of  all,  if  difference  in  the  unlawful  there  be,  that 
most  unmanly  of  wrongs  whose  sole  defence  lies  in  the 
cowardly  words :  "  Am  I  my  sister's  keeper  !  " 

GEORGE  MAC  DONALD. 


LETTERS    FROM   HELL. 


LETTER  I. 

I  FELT  the  approach  of  death.  There  had  been  a  time 
of  unconsciousness  following  upon  the  shiverings  and 
wild  fancies  of  fever.  Once  more  I  seemed  to  be  waking; 
but  what  a  waking  !  The  power  of  life  was  gone  :  I  lay 
weak  and  helpless,  unable  to  move  hand  or  foot ;  the 
eyelids  which  I  had  raised,  closed  again  paralyzed  ;  the 
tongue  had  grown  too  large  for  the  parched  mouth  ;  the 
voice — my  own  voice — sounded  strange  in  my  ears.  I 
heard  those  say  that  watched  me — they  thought  I  undej-; '* 
stood  not — "He  is  past  suffering,"  Was  I  ?  Ah  me  !  I 
suffered  more  than  human  soul  can  imagine.  I  had  a 
terrible  conviction  that  I  lay  dying,  death  creeping 
nearer.  I  had  always  shrunk  from  the  bare  thought  of 
it,  but  I  never  knew  what  it  meant  to  be  dying,  never 
before  that  hour.  Hour  ? — nay,  the  hours  drifted  into 
days  and  the  days  seemed  one  awful  hour  of  horror  and 
agony  at  the  boundary  line  of  life. 

Where  was  faith  ?  I  had  believed  once,  but  that  was 
long  ago.  Vainly  I  tried  to  call  back  some  shred  of 
belief;  the  poorest  remnant  of  faith  would  have  seemed  a 
wealth  of  comfort  in  the  deep  anguish  of  soul  that  com- 
passed me  about.  There  was  nothing  I  could  cling  to 
— nothing  to  uphold  me.  Like  a  drowning  man  I  would 
have  snatched  at  a  straw  even  ;  but  there  was  nothing — 
nothing  !  That  is  a  terrible  word  ;  one  word  only  in  all 
human  utterance  being  more  terrible  still — too  late  !  too 
late  !  Vainly  I  struggled  ;  an  agonizing  fear  consumed 
what  was  left  of  me. 

And  that  which  I  would  not  call  back  stood  up  before 
my  failing  perception  with  an  unsought  clearness  and 
completeness  of  vision — the  life  which  lay  behind  me, 
and  now  was  ebbing  away.  But  little  good  had  I  done 
in  that  life,  and  much  evil.  I  saw  it :  it  stood  out  as  a 
fearful  fact  from  the  background  of  consciousness.  I 


c 


4  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

had  lived  a  life  of  selfishness,  ever  pleasing  my  own 
desire.  It  was  true,  awfully  true,  that  I  had  not 
followed  the  way  of  life,  but  the  paths  of  death  since  the 
days  even  of  childhood.  And  now  I  lay  dying,  a  victim 
of  my  own  folly,  wretched,  helplessly  lost  !  One  after 
another  my  sins  rose  before  me,  crying  for  expia- 
tion ;  but  it  was  too  late  now — too  late  for  repentance. 
Despair  only  was  left  ;  the  very  thought  of  repentance 
had  faded  from  the  brain. 

Not  yet  fifty  years  old,  possessed  of  everything  that 
could  make  life  pleasant,  and  yet  to  die — it  seemed  im- 
possible, though  I  felt  that  death  even  then  had  entered  my 
being.  There  was  death  within  me,  and  death  without;  it 
spoke  from  the  half-light  of  the  sick  chamber;  it  spoke  from 
every  feature  of  the  watchers  about  me;  it  spoke  from  the 
churchyard  silence  that  curtained  my  couch.  It  was  a 
fearful  hour,  and  I,  the  chief  person,  the  centre  of  all 
that  horror — every  eye  upon  me,  every  ear  listening  for 
my  parting  breath.  A  shudder  went  through  me  :  I 
felt  as  one  already  buried — buried  alive  ! 

One  thought  of  comfort  seemed  left — I  snatched  at 
it  :  it  won't  go  worse  with  you  than  with  most  people  ! 
Is  there  anything  that  could  have  shown  the  depth  of  my 
wretchedness  more  clearly  than  the  fact  that  I  could 
comfort  myself  with  such  miserable  assurance?  Was  it 
not  the  very  cause  of  all  my  misery  that  I  had  come  by 
the  broad  way  chosen  by  the  many  ? 

But  what  avails  it  now  to  depict  the  horrors  of  my 
last  struggle,  since  no  living  soul  could  comprehend  my 
sufferings,  or  understand  what  I  felt,  on  entering  the 
gates  of  death.  Hell  was  within  me.  No,  no  ;  it  was 
as  yet  but  approaching. 

The  end  drew  nigh.  Once  more  I  raised  my  eyes, 
and  beheld  the  terror  distorting  my  own  features 
reflected  from  the  faces  that  watched  me.  A  deep- 
drawn  sigh,  a  gurgling  moan,  a  last  convulsive  wrench — 
and  I  was  gone.  .  .  . 

An  unknown  sensation  laid  hold  of  me.  What  was 
this  I  felt  ?  Death  had  clutched  my  every  fibre,  but  I 
seemed  released,  free,  strangely  free !  Consciousness 
had  been  fading,  but  was  returning  even  now,  waking  as 
from  a  swoon.  Where  was  I  ?  Mist  and  night,  desola- 
tion and  emptiness,  enveloped  me  ;  but  the  dismal  space 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  5 

could  not  be  called  dark,  for  I  could  see,  although  there 
was  not  a  ray  of  light  to  aid  me.  The  first  feeling 
creeping  through  me  was  a  sensation  of  cold,  of  inward 
cold,  rising  from  the  very  roots  of  being  ;  chill  after  chill 
went  through  me  ;  I  shuddered  with  chattering  teeth. 
And  an  indescribable  loathing  seized  me,  born  of  the 
nauseous  vapors  that  wrapt  me  about.  Where  was  I  ? 
My  mind  reverted  to  the  story  of  the  rich  man  who, 
having  died,  lifted  up  his  eyes  in  hell.  Was  I  the  rich 
man  ?  But  that  could  not  be  ;  for  of  him  the  story  tells 
that  he  longed  for  a  single  drop  of  water  to  cool  his 
tongue,  and  it  says  he  was  tormented  in  flame.  Now  I 
was  shivering — shivering  with  a  fearful  cold.  Yet  it  is 
true,  nevertheless — terribly  true — about  the  tormenting 
fire,  as  I  found  out  ere  long. 

But  consciousness,  at  first,  seemed  returned  chiefly  to 
experience  an  indescribable  feeling  of  nakedness,  which, 
indeed,  might  explain  the  terrible  cold  assailing  me.  I 
still  believed  in  my  personal  identity,  but  I  was  merely  a 
shadow  of  myself.  The  eye  which  saw,  the  teeth  which 
chattered,  did  not  exist  any  more  than  the  rest  of  my 
earthly  body  existed.  All  that  was  left  of  me  was  a 
shade  unclothed  to  the  skin — nay,  to  the  inmost  soul. 
No  wonder  I  shivered  ;  no  wonder  I  felt  naked.  But 
the  feeling  of  nakedness,  strong  as  it  was,  excluded 
shame. 

It  did  not  exclude  a  sense  of  utter  wretchedness.  All 
the  manliness,  my  pride  of  former  days,  had  left  me. 
Men  despise  abject  cowards  I  know,  but  I  had  sunk 
below  the  contempt  even  of  such  a  name.  Wretched, 
unutterably  wretched,  I  was  making  my  entry  into  hell 
at  the  very  time  when  my  obsequies,  no  doubt,  were 
about  to  be  celebrated  on  earth  with  all  the  pomp  befit- 
ting the  figure  I  had  played.  What  booted  it  that  some 
priest  with  solemn  chant  should  count  me  blessed, 
assuring  the  mourners  that  I  had  gained  the  realms  of 
glory  where  tears  are. wiped  away  and  sorrow  is  no 
more  ?  What  booted  it,  alas  !  since  I,  miserable  I,  was 
even  then  awaking  to  the  pangs  of  hell  ?  Woe  is  me — 
ah,  woe  indeed  ! 

I  hastened  onward.  Was  that  earth,  or  what,  that 
touched  my  feet  ?  It  was  soft,  spongy — a  queer  pave- 
ment !  Possibly  it  consisted  of  those  good  intentions 


6  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

with  which,  as  some  one  has  pointed  out,  the  road  to 
hell  is  paved.  Walking  felt  strangely  unpleasant,  but  I 
got  along,  walking  or  flitting,  I  know  not  which,  nor  y.t 
how  fast;  on  I  went  through  mist  or  darkness,  or  what- 
ever it  was.  In  the  far  distance,  it  might  be  some 
thousands  of  miles  away,  I  perceived  a  glimmering  light, 
and  instinctively  towards  that  light  I  directed  my  course. 
The  mist  seemed  to  grow  less  dense,  forms  took  shape 
about  me,  but  they  might  be  merely  the  work  of  imagina- 
tion; shadowy  outlines  of  castles,  palaces,  and  houses 
appearing  through  the  mist.  Sometimes  it  was  as  if  my 
blind  haste  carried  me  right  through  one  of  these  ghostly 
structures.  After  a  while  I  began  to  distinguish  human 
phantoms  flitting  along,  singly  at  first,  but  soon  in 
greater  number.  I  viewed  them  with  horror,  fully  aware 
at  the  same  time  that  they  were  merely  beings  like  my- 
self. Suddenly  a  troop  of  these  spirits  surrounded  me. 
I  burst  from  them,  tremblingly,  but  only  to  be  seized  upon 
by  another  troop.  I  say  seized  upon,  for  they  snatched 
at  me  eagerly,  as  if  each  one  meant  to  hold  me  fast, 
shade  though  I  was.  Vainly  they  tried  to  detain  me, 
raising  their  cries  incessantly.  But  what  cries  !  Their 
voices  fell  on  my  ear  as  a  miserable  wheezing,  a  dismal 
moaning.  In  my  horror  I  gave  a  scream,  and  lo!  it  was 
the  same  puny  frightful  sound.  There  was  such  a  whirr 
of  voices,  I  could  not  possibly  make  them  out ;  not,  at 
least,  beyond  certain  constantly  repeated  questions,  like, 
"  Whence  do  you  come  ?"  or,  "  What  is  the  news  ? "  Poor 
me,  what  cared  I  for  the  news  left  behind  !  And  it  was 
not  so  much  the  question,  whence.?  but  rather  its  awful 
opposite,  whither  bound?  that  filled  my  soul. 

Luckily  there  were  other  miserable  wanderers  speed- 
ing along  the  same  road,  and  while  the  swarming  troops 
tried  to  stop  them  I  managed  to  escape.  On  I  went, 
panting,  not  for  bodily,  but  spiritual,  distress,  till  at  last 
I  reached  a  lonely  spot  where  I  might  try  to  collect  my- 
self. 

Collect  myself !  What  was  there  left  to  collect — what 
availed  it  to  consider,  since  I  was  lost,  hopelessly  lost  ? 

Overpowered  with  that  thought  I  sank  to  the  ground. 
This,  then,  was  what  I  had  come  to.  I  had  died  and 
found  myself  in  hell,  in  the  place  of  weeping  and  gnash- 
ing of  teeth,  of  torment,  alas,  beyond  conception.  This, 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  7 

then,  was  the  end  of  life's  enjoyment.  Why,  ah  why, 
had  I  been  satisfied  to  halt  between  faith  and  unbelief, 
between  heaven  and  hell,  to  the  last  moment?  A  few 
short  months  ago,  or,  who  knows,  perhaps  even  a  few 
days  before  the  terrible  end,  it  might  have  been  time  still 
to  escape  so  dire  a  fate.  But  blindly  I  had  walked  to 
destruction;  blindly? — nay,  open-eyed,  and  I  deserved 
no  better. 

This  latter  thought  was  not  without  a  touch  of  bitter 
satisfaction.  After  all,  even  hell  had  something  left  that 
resembled  satisfaction  !  But,  in  truth,  I  hated  myself 
with  a  burning  implacable  hatred  in  spite  of  the  self-love 
which  had  accompanied  me  hither  unimpaired.  And 
remembering  the  many  so-called  good  intentions  of  my 
sinful  life,  I  felt  ready  to  tear  myself  to  pieces.  In 
sooth,  I  myself  had  assisted  diligently  in  paving  the 
road  to  hell ! 

But  that  feeling  was  void  of  contrition.  I  felt  sad  ;  I 
felt  ruined  and  miserably  undone.  I  condemned,  I 
cursed  myself;  but  repentance  was  far  from  me.  Oh,  could 
I  but  repent !  I  know  there  is  such  a  thing,  but  the 
power  of  repenting  is  gone,  gone  for  ever.  I  did  not  at 
first  see  myself  and  my  position  as  I  do  now.  I  only  felt 
miserable  and  hopelessly  lost.  And  though  I  hated  my- 
self, at  the  same  time  I  pitied  myself  most  deeply. 
Would  that  I  could  have  wept !  Poor  Dives  sighed  for 
a  drop  of  water;  I  kept  sighing  for  a  tear,  a  poor  human 
tear,  for  somehow  I  felt  that  tears  could  unbind  me  from 
all  my  grief.  I  consumed  my  powers  in  vain  efforts  to 
weep,  but  even  tears  were  of  the  good  things  beyond  me 
now.  The  effort  shook  my  soul,  but  it  was  vain,  vain  ! 

I  started  suddenly ;  there  was  a  voice  beside  me,  a 
young  woman  with  a  babe  on  her  arm. 

"  It  is  hopeless  trying,"  she  said,  almost  tenderly  her 
features  even  more  than  her  voice  bespeaking  sympathy. 
"  I  myself  have  tried  it,  and  tried  it  again;  but  it's  no  use. 
There  is  no  water  here,  not  as  much  even  as  a  single 
tear. " 

Alas,  I  felt  she  spoke  the  truth.  The  time  was  when 
I  might  have  wept,  but  I  would  not;  now  I  longed  to 
weep,  but  could  not. 

The  young  woman — she  was  hardly  more  than  a  girl — 
sat  down  beside  me.  Indescribably  touching  was  the 


8  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

expression  of  sorrowing  fondness  with  which  she  gazed 
upon  the  babe  in  her  lap,  a  tiny  thing  which  apparently 
had  not  lived  many  days. 

After  a  pause  she  turned  again  to  me.  It  was  not  I, 
but  the  child  which  occupied  her  attention. 

"  Don't  you  think  my  baby  is  alive  ?  "  she  said.  "  It 
is  not  dead,  tell  me,  though  it  lies  so  still  and  never  gives 
a  cry." 

To  tell  the  truth  I  thought  the  child  was  dead,  but  I 
had  it  not  in  me  to  grieve  the  poor  creature,  so  I  said — 

"  It  may  be  asleep — babies  do  sleep  a  good  deal." 

"Yes,  yes,  it  is  asleep,"  she  repeated,  rocking  the 
child  softly. 

But  I  sat  trembling 'at  the  sound  of  my  own  voice, 
which  for  the  first  time  had  shaped  itself  to  words. 

"  They  say  I  killed  my  child,  my  own  little  baby,"  she 
continued.  "  But  don't  you  think  they  talk  foolishly  ? 
How  should  a  mother  find  it  in  her  heart  to  kill  her 
child,  her  very  own  child?"  and  she  pressed  the  little 
thing  to  her  bosom  with  convulsive  tenderness. 

The  sight  was  more  than  I  could  endure.  I  rose  and 
left  her.  Yet  it  soothed  my  own  misery  that  for  a 
moment  I  seemed  filled  with  another's  grief  rather  than 
with  my  own.  Her  grief  I  could  leave  behind.  I  rose 
and  fled  but  my  own  wretchedness  followed  on  my  heels. 

Away  I  went,  steering  towards  the  distant  light.  It 
was  as  though  a  magic  power  drove  me  in  that  direction. 
To  the  right  and  left  of  me  the  realms  of  mist  appeared 
cultivated  and  inhabited.  Strange  fantastic  shapes  and 
figures  met  my  view,  but  they  seemed  shadows  only  of 
things  and  men.  Much  that  I  saw  filled  me  with  terror, 
while  everything  added  to  my  pain.  By  degrees,  how- 
ever, I  began  to  understand  that  wretched  negativeness 
of  existence.  I  gathered  experience  as  1  went  on,  but 
what  experience  ?  Let  me  bury  it  in  silence.  One  inci- 
dent I  will  record,  since  it  explains  how  I  first  came  to 
comprehend  that  horror-teeming  state  of  things. 

I  was  stopping  in  front  of  one  of  those  transparently 
shadowy  structures  ;  it  appeared  to  be  a  tavern.  In  the 
world  I  used  to  despise  such  localities,  and  would  never 
have  demeaned  myself  by  entering  one.  But  now  it  was 
all  the  same  to  me.  They  were  making  merry  within,  I 
saw, — drinking,  gambling,  and  what  not.  But  it  was  an 


LETfERS     FROM     HELL.  9 

awful  merriment  in  which  these  horrible  shades  were 
engaged.  One  of  them,  to  all  appearance  the  landlord, 
beckoned  me  to  enter  ;  an  inviting  fire  was  blazing  on  the 
hearth,  and,  shivering  as  I  was,  I  went  towards  it 
straightway. 

"Can't  you  come  in  by  the  door  ? "  snarled  the  landlord, 
stopping  me  rudely. 

Abashed  I  stammered,  "  I  am  so  cold,  so  miserably 
cold  !  " 

"  The  more  fool  you  for  going  naked!"  cried  the  fellow, 
with  an  ugly  grin.  "  We  admit  well-dressed  people  as  a 
rule." 

Involuntarily  I  thought  of  my  soft  Turkish  dressing- 
gown  and  its  warm  belongings,  when,  lo  !  scarcely  had 
the  idea  been  shaped  in  my  brain  than  I  found  myself 
clothed  in  dressing-gown,  smoking-cap,  and  slippers. 
At  the  same  time  my  nakedness  was  not  covered,  and  I 
felt  as  cold  as  before. 

I  moved  towards  the  hearth,  putting  my  trembling 
hands  to  the  grate  ;  but  the  blaze  emitted  no  warmth — 
it  might  as  well  have  been  painted  on  canvas. 

I  turned  away  in  despair.  The  merry-making  shades 
laughed  harshly,  calling  me  a  fool  for  my  pains.  One  of 
them  handed  me  a  goblet.  Now  I  had  never  been  a 
drunkard,  but  that  feeling  of  indescribable  emptiness 
within  me  prompted  me  to  seize  the  cup,  lifting  it  to  my 
lips  eagerly  that  1  might  drain  it  on  the  spot.  But  alas 
the  nothingness  !  my  burning  desire  found  it  an  empty 
cup,  and  I  felt  ready  to  faint. 

My  horror  must  have  expressed  itself  in  my  features, 
for  they  laughed  louder  than  ever,  grinning  at  my  dis- 
appointment. I  bore  it  quietly.  There  was  something 
frightfully  repulsive  in  their  unnatural  merriment,  cutting 
me  to  the  soul. 

The  carousal  continued  ;  I,  with  wildly  confused  ideas, 
watching  the  strange  revelry. 

Recovering   myself,  I  turned  to  the  churlish  landlord  : 

"  What  house  is  this? "  I  asked,  with  a  voice  as  unpleas- 
ant and  gnarling  as  his  own. 

"  It's  my  house  !  " 

That  was  not  much  of  information,  so  I  asked  again 
after  a  while  :  "  How  did  it  come  to  be  here — the  house 
I  mean — and  everything  ? " 


10  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

The  landlord  looked  at  me  with  a  sneer  that  plainly 
said,  "  You  greenhorn  you!"  vouchsafing  however  present- 
ly :  "  How  it  came  here  ? — why,  [  thought  of  it,  and 
then  it  was. 

That  was  light  on  the  subject.  "  Then  the  house  is 
merely  an  idea  ?  "  I  went  on. 

"  Yes,  of  course  ;  what  else  should  it  be  ? " 

"  Ah,  indeed,  youngster,"  cried  one  of  the  gamblers, 
turning  upon  me,  "  here  we  are  in  the  true  land  of  magic, 
the  like  of  which  was  never  heard  of  on  earth.  We  need 
but  imagine  a  thing,  and  then  we  have  it.  Hurrah,  I 
say,  'tis  a  merry  place  !  "  and  with  frightful  laughter  that 
betokened  anything  but  satisfaction,  he  threw  the  dice 
upon  the  table. 

Now  I  understood.  The  house  was  imaginary,  the 
fire  without  warmth,  the  tapers  without  light,  the  cards, 
the  dice,  the  drink,  the  torn  apron  even  of  the  landlord — 
everything,  in  short,  existed  merely  in  imagination.  One 
thing  only  was  no  empty  idea,  but  fearful  reality — the 
terrible  necessity  which  forced  these  shadowy  semblances 
of  men  to  appear  to  be  doing  now  in  the  spirit  the  very 
things  they  did  in  the  body  upon  earth.  For  this 
reason  the  landlord  was  obliged  to  keep  a  low  tavern  ; 
for  this  reason  the  company  that  gathered  there  must 
gamble,  drink,  and  swear,  pretending  wanton  merriment, 
despair  gnawing  their  hearts  the  while. 

I  looked  at  myself.  This  clothing  then  which  could 
not  cover  me,  far  less  warm  my  frozen  limbs,  was  but 
the  jugglery  of  desiring  thought.  "  Lie  !  falsehood  ! 
away  !  "  I  cried.  Oh  that  I  could  get  away  from  myself  ! 
Alas  !  wretch  that  I  was,  I  could  at  best  escape  but  the 
clothing  which  was  no  clothing.  I  tore  it  from  me,  rush- 
ing away  in  headlong  flight,  conscious  only  of  my  own 
miserable  nakedness,  fiendish  peals  of  laughter  following 
me  like  the  croaking  of  multitudinous  frogs. 

How  long  I  wandered,  restless  spirit  that  I  was  I  can- 
not tell.  If  there  were  such  a  thing  as  division  of  time 
in  hell,  doubtless  it  would  be  imaginary  like  everything 
else.  The  distant  light  was  still  my  goal.  But  so  far 
from  reaching  it,  I  seemed  to  perceive  that  it  grew 
weaker  and  weaker.  This,  at  first,  I  took  to  be  some 
delusion  on  my  part,  but  the  certainty  presently  was 
beyond  a  doubt.  The  light  did  decrease  till  at  last  it 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  If 

was  the  mere  ghost  of  a  radiance  ;  it  was  plain  I  shoufd 
find  myself  in  utter  darkness  before  long. 

It  was  a  fact,  then,  scarcely  to  be  believed,  but  a  fact 
nevertheless,  that,  miserable  as  I  was,  I  could  be  more 
miserable  still.  I  shrunk  together  within  myself,  anxious, 
as  far  as  lay  with  me,  to  escape  the  doings  of  the  dead. 
People  on  earth  my  think  that  even  in  Hades  it  must  be 
a  blessing  rather  than  a  bane  to  occupy  one's  thoughts 
with  the  affairs  of  others.  Oh,  happy  mortals,  happy 
with  all  your  griefs  and  woes,  you  judge  according  to 
your  earthly  capacities.  There  is  no  such  blessing  here, 
no  occupying  one's  thoughts  against  their  own  dire  drift  ! 
And  as  for  diversion,  that  miserable  anodyne  for  earth- 
born  trouble,  it  is  a  thing  of  the  past  once  you  have 
closed  your  eyes  in  death. 

It  is  impossible  for  me  to  tell  you,  since  you  could  not 
comprehend,  to  what  extent  a  man  here  may  shrink 
together  within  himself.  Be  it  enough  to  say  I  cowered 
as  a  toad  in  a  hole,  hugging  my  miserable  being,  till  I  was 
roused  by  a  groan  coming  from  somewhere  beside  me. 
I  started  affrighted  and  looked  about.  The  darkness 
being  still  increasing,  I,  with  difficulty,  distinguished 
another  cowering  figure  looking  at  me  furtively.  The 
face  was  strangely  distorted,  and  the  creature  had  a  rope 
round  its  neck,  the  hands  being  constantly  trying  to 
secure  the  ends  ;  at  times  also  a  finger  would  move  round 
the  neck  as  if  to  loosen  the  rope.  The  figure  looked  at 
me  with  eyes  of  terror  starting  from  the  head,  but  not  a 
word  would  cross  the  lips.  It  was  plain  I  must  make  the 
beginning. 

"  The  light  is  decreasing,"  I  said,  pointing  in  the  direc- 
tion whence  the  pale  glimmer  emanated.  "  I  fear 
we  shall  be  quite  in  the  dark  presently." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  figure,  with  a  gurgling  voice  ;  "  it  will 
be  night  directly." 

"  How  long  will  it  last  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  It  may  be  some  hours,  it  may 
be  a  hundred  years." 

"  Is  there  such  difference  of  duration  ?  " 

"  We  don't  perceive  the  difference  ;  it  is  always  long, 
frightfully  long,"  said  the  figure,  with  a  dismal  moan. 

"  But  it  is  quite  certain,  is  it  not,  that  daylight  will 
reappear? " 


12  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

"  If  you  call  that  daylight  which  we  used  to  call  dusk 
upon  earth,  we  never  get  more.  I  strongly  suspect  that 
it  is  not  daylight  at  all  ;  however,  that  matters  little. 
I  see  you  are  a  newcomer  here." 

I  could  but  answer  with  a  sigh  "Yes,  quite  new  ;  I 
died  but  lately." 

"  A  natural  death  ?  "  queried  the  spectre. 

"  To  be  sure  ;  what  else  ?  " 

That  "  what  else  "  evidently  displeased  the  creature  ; 
the  distorted  face  looked  at  me  with  a  horrible  grimace, 
and  there  was  silence. 

I,  for  my  part  cared  little  to  continue  so  unpleasant  a 
conversation,  but  the  spectre  resumed  ere  long : 

"  It  is  hard  to  be  doomed  to  carry  one's  life  in  one's 
hands.  There  is  no  rest  for  me  anywhere  ;  I  am  for 
ever  trying  to  escape  ;  there  is  not  a  creature  but  wants 
to  hang  me.  Indeed,  you  are  capable  of  doing  it  your- 
self, I  see  it  in  your  eyes  ;  only  being  fresh  here  you  are 
too  bewildered  as  yet  with  your  own  fate  to  be  really 
dangerous.  Do  you  see  the  ends  of  this  rope  ?  It  is  my 
one  aim  to  prevent  people  getting  hold  of  them,  for  if 
once  they  succeed  I  shall  be  hanged  in  a  jiffy." 

The  spectre  paused  going  on  presently  : 

"  It  is  but  foolishness  and  imagination  I  know  ;  for 
since  no  one  can  take  what  I  have  not  got,  how  should 
any  one  take  my  life  ?  But  I  am  utterly  helpless,  and 
whenever  this  foolish  fear  possesses  me  afresh,  I  must 
run — run  as  though  I  had  a  thousand  lives  to  lose 
— as  though  hell  were  peopled  with  murderous  hang- 
men." 

The  spectre  moaned,  again  trying  to  loosen  the 
rope  with  a  finger,  and  the  moaning  died  away  into 
silence.  , 

We  sat,  but  not  for  long.  I  made  some  movement 
with  the  arm  nearest  my  wretched  neighbor.  Evidently 
he  imagined  I  was  for  seizing  the  rope,  the  ends  of 
which  he  was  tightly  grasping,  and,  like  a  flash  of  light- 
ning, he  vanished  from  my  side. 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 


LETTER    II. 

I  STAYED  where  I  was,  and  soon  found  myself  buried 
in  darkness.  Did  I  say  soon  ?  Fool  that  I  am  !  How 
can  I  tell  what  length  of  time  passed  before  it  became 
absolutely  dark  ?  One  thing  only  I  know,  that  darkness 
grew  with  increasing  rapidity  and  density  till  it  was  com- 
plete at  last.  At  last? — when  but  a  moment  since  I 
called  it  soon  1  How  unfit  I  am  to  judge  at  all ! 

How  shall  I  describe  the  darkness?  Mortal  man 
could  never  conceive  it.  Of  very  great  darkness  people 
are  apt  to  say  it  is  to  be  felt,  or  to  be  cut  with  a  knife. 
But  even  such  manner  of  speech  will  not  define  the  night 
of  hell.  Darkness  here  is  so  dense,  so  heavy,  it  oppress- 
es poor  souls  as  with  the  weight  of  centuries  ;  it  is  as 
though  one  were  wedged  in  between  mountains,  unable 
to  move,  unable  to  breathe.  It  is  a  night  beyond  all 
earthly  conception  ;  perhaps  that  is  why  the  Bible  calls 
it  the  outer  darkness,  which,  I  take  it,  means  utter- 
most. 

Thus  I  was  sitting  in  the  narrowest  prison,  shivering 
with  cold,  trembling  with  terror,  miserable,  wretched 
beyond  utterance  ;  I,  who  but  a  short  while  since  had 
the  world  at  my  feet,  enjoying  life,  and  the  riches  and 
pleasure  thereof.  Shivering  with  cold — yes  ;  but,  I  must 
add,  consumed  with  an  inward  fire. 

Terrible  truth  !  That  the  torment  of  hell  should  con- 
sist in  an  awful  contrast — cold  without  and  a  consuming 
fire  within,  compared  to  which  the  burning  sands  of 
Sahara  even  seem  cool  as  the  limpid  wave.  And  what 
shall  I  say  of  the  unutterable  anguish — hell's  constant 
fear  of  death  ?  For  with  the  growing  darkness  a  grow- 
ing fear  falls  upon  the  tortured  soul,  agonizing  as  the 
pangs  of  death.  Happy  if  they  were  but  pangs  of 
death  !  but  there  is  no  dying  here,  only  a  continuous 
living  over  again  in  the  spirit  of  that  most  dread  of 
earthly  conflicts,  a  panting  for  life,  as  it  were,  a  wailing 
and  moaning,  with  pitiful  cries  for  mercy,  cries  for  help, 
but  they  fall  back  upon  the  soul  unheard — unheard  ! 

Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  be  lying  on  a  bed  of  misery 
night  after  night,  courting  sleep  in  vain,  worn  with  afflic- 
tion, trouble,  or  grief  ?  Let  me  tell  you,  then,  that  this 


T4  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

is  sheer  bliss  as  compared  with  the  sufferings  of  a  night 
here,  endless  in  pain  as  it  seems  in  duration.  For  at 
last,  poor  earthly  sufferer,  your  very  sorrows  become 
your  lullaby  ;  nature  claims  her  due  ;  you  sleep,  and 
sleep  drowns  your  woe,  transfiguring  it  even  with  rosy- 
fingered  dreams,  restoring  you  to  strength  the  while. 
And  you  awake  to  find  that  a  new  day  has  risen,  with 
grace  and  hope,  and  smiling  with  fresh  endeavor. 

Happy  mortal — ay,  thrice  happy — whatever  your  lot 
may  be,  however  poor  and  sorrowful  you  may  deem  it. 
For  remember  that  as  compared  with  us  here,  the  most 
miserable  beneath  the  sun  might  call  themselves  blessed, 
if  only  they  could  free  themselves  from  delusion  and 
take  their  troubles  for  what  they  are.  For,  strange  as  it 
may  sound,  in  the  world,  which  we  know  to  be  a  world 
of  realities,  trouble  more  or  less  consists  in  imagination 
— "  thinking  makes  it  so  ; "  whereas  here,  where  all  is 
shadow  and  nothingness,  misery  alone  is  real.  In  the 
world  so  much  depends  on  how  one  takes  trouble  ;  in 
hell  there  is  but  one  way  of  bearing  it — the  hard,  unyield- 
ing must. 

Oh  to  be  able  to  sleep,  to  forget  oneself  though  but 
for  a  moment, — what  mercy,  what  bliss  !  But  why  do  I 
add  to  my  pangs  by  thinking  of  the  impossible  ?  I  seem 
to  be  weeping,  as  I  write  this,  bitter  tears,  but  they  blot 
not  the  unhappy  record  ;  like  leaden  tears  they  fall  back 
upon  the  soul,  adding  to  her  weight.  Did  I  say  tears  ? 
Ah,  believe  me  it  is  but  a  fashion  of  speaking  ! 

Thus  I  sat,  spending  the  endless  night — a  night  of 
death  I  had  better  call  it,  since  it  differs  so  terribly  from 
the  worst  nights  I  knew  on  earth.  I  suffered  an  agony  of 
cold,  but  within  me  there  burned  the  quenchless  torment 
of  sin  and  sinful  desire — a  two-fold  flame,  I  know  not 
which  was  strongest ;  it  seized  upon  me  alternately,  my 
thoughts  adding  fuel  to  the  terrible  glow. 

My  sins  !  What  boots  it  now  to  remember  them,  but 
I  must — I  must.  The  life  of  sin  is  behind  me,  finished 
and  closed  ;  but  with  fearful  distinctness  it  lies  open  to 
my  vision,  as  a  page  to  be  read,  not  merely  as  a  whole, 
but  in  all  its  minutest  parts.  I  seem  to  have  found  it  out 
now  only  that  I  am  a  sinner,  or  rather  that  I  was  one,  for 
on  earth  I  somehow  did  not  know  it.  The  successful 
way  in  which  I  managed  to  suppress  that  consciousness 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  15 

almost  entirely  seems  to  prove,  if  not  my  own,  at  any 
rate  the  devil's  consummate  skill.  I  say  almost  entirely ; 
I  could  not  stifle  it  altogether,  but  I  managed  to  keep  it 
in  a  prison  so  close  that  it  troubled  me  rarely.  And  if 
conscience  at  times  made  efforts  to  be  heard,  the  voice 
was  so  gentle  that  I  never  hesitated  to  disregard  it. 
Yes,  Satan  succeeded  so  well  with  me  that  I  never 
thought  of  my  sins,  really  forgot  them  as  though  they 
were  not. 

But  now — now  ?  that  seeming  forgetting  truly  was  the 
devil's  deceit.  My  sins  are  all  present  now  ;  I  see  them, 
every  one  of  them,  and  none  is  wanting  ;  and  indeed 
their  number  is  far  greater  than  I  could  have  believed 
possible.  A  thousand  trivial  things — not  trifles  here, 
though  I  once  believed  them  such — raise  their  front  in 
bitter  accusation.  Life  lies  before  me  as  an  open  book, 
a  record  of  minutest  detail,  and  what  seemed  scarce 
worth  the  notice  once  has  now  assumed  its  own  terrible 
importance — sin  succeeding  sin,  and  the  remainder  folly. 
My  anguished  soul  turns  hither  and  thither,  writhing  and 
moaning  ;  not  a  spot  is  left  where  she  might  rest — not  a 
moment's  peace  to  soothe  her  ;  shut  in  with  sins  innu- 
merable, she  is  the  prey  of  despair. 

And  yet  I  never  was  what  the  world  calls  a  bad  man. 
I  was  selfish,  but  not  void  of  natural  pity  ;  having  a  car- 
nal mind,  but  not  barren  of  intellectual  tastes  ;  ruled  by 
strong  appetites,  but  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  give 
open  cause  of  offense.  I  was  even  good-natured,  help- 
ful and  kind,  where  it  did  not  clash  with  some  dominant 
passion.  Indeed  I  was  not  only  a  general  favorite,  but 
enjoyed  universal  respect.  In  short,  I  was  a  man  whom 
the  world  could  approve  of,  and  if  I  cared  not  to  serve 
the  world,  the  more  was  I  desirous  it  should  serve  me. 
Without  faith,  and  following  no  aim,  I  lived  to  enjoy  the 
moment.  Yet  I  was  not  always  without  faith.  There 
had  been  a  time,  in  the  far-off  days  of  childhood  when  I 
believed  lovingly,  ardently  ;  but  on  entering  the  world 
faith,  having  no  root,  faded  as  a  flower  in  the  noonday 
heat.  And  once  again,  having  reached  a  certain  point 
in  my  life,  it  seemed  to  revive,  to  blossom  anew  ;  but 
everything  failing,  it  also  failed,  and  never  yielded  fruit. 
At  the  same  time  I  had  never  quite  plucked  it  out  of  the 
heart.  To  my  dying  hour  I  had  a  feeling  that  something 


l6  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

of  the  God-seeking  child  was  latent  within  me,  of  the 
childhood  in  which  I  began,  but  never  continued. 

In  the  days  of  manhood  I  followed  passion.  Do  you 
care  to  inquire  ?  Fashionable  amusement,  the  excitement 
of  fast  living,  the  enjoyment  of  beauty,  piquant 
adventure,  the  pleasure  of  the  senses  in  short — that  is 
what  I  lived  for. 

Oh  the  fire  within  me  — kindled  long  ago,  in  the  days 
even  of  bodily  life !  It  did  not  then  cause  the  pain  it 
causes  now,  or  rather — since  fire  cannot  be  dissociated 
from  suffering — it  burned  with  a  pain  akin  to  delight. 
But  now,  alas  !  there  is  a  consuming  emptiness  within, 
desire  feeding  upon  imagination,  feeding  upon  my  very 
soul  unappeasably.  To  be  burnt  alive  would  be  as 
nothing  compared  to  that  torment,  for  then  the  hope 
would  remain  that  there  must  be  an  end.  But  there  is 
no  end  now,  no  hope  of  deliverance. 

And  yet  I  have  not  confessed  all  the  pangs  of  that 
terrible  first  night.  I  am  ashamed  to  own  what  I  may 
not  hide  !  For,  apart  from  all  those  horrors  common  to 
all,  I  have  a  grief  to  myself  alone — most  of  those  here 
have  a  load  of  pain'  pertaining  to  themselves  only — an 
aching  sorrow  weighing  upon  my  soul  distinctly  separate 
from  all  general  woes  ;  it  has  not  left  me  for  a  moment 
since  fin-t  I  opened  my  eyes  in  hell.  It  is  but  a  little 
story,  but  one  of  those  experiences  which  are  of  far 
deeper  importance  in  our  lives  than  would  seem 
credible. 

My  thirty-first  birthday  found  me  in  a  village  tavern 
away  from  home.  After  more  than  a  year's  absence — 
the  journey  extending  as  far  as  the  Holy  Land — I  was 
returning  the  unhappiest  of  mankind,  bowed  down  with 
mourning,  and  ill  bearing  the  hurt  of  disappointed  passion. 
Three  we  had  been  on  setting  out,  two  only  returning. 
Journeying  homeward  we  stopped  on  the  road,  a  sudden 
storm  obliging  us  to  seek  shelter  in  a  common  inn. 

There  are  strange  things  in  life.  Having  for  months 
been  dead  to  all  sympathy,  it  was  so  ordered  that  I 
should  find  here  an  object  to  rouse  me  from  my  stupor — 
to  call  me  back  to  life.  It  was  but  a  ragged  boy,  some 
eight  or  nine  years  old,  whose  mother  had  been  one  of  a 
troop  of  strolling  actors.  For  some  reason  or  other  the 
company  had  broken  up,  and  her  body  presently  was 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  1 7 

found  in  a  neighboring  swamp.  He  was  a  poor  little  fel- 
low, forlorn  and  neglected,  and  as  shy  as  a  wild  thing  of 
the  field,  disconsolate  in  his  grief.  He  had  loved  ten- 
derly, passionately — so  had  I ;  he  had  lost  all  he  had 
loved — so  had  I. 

But  there  was  more.  The  boy's  nature  fascinated  me 
strangely.  His  impetuosity,  his  stand-off  pride,  even  his 
intractable  wildness,  somehow  struck  a  congenial  chord 
in  my  own  deepest  soul.  I  felt  as  if  I,  I  only,  could 
understand  him  ;  as  if  I,  in  his  place,  would  have  been 
just  like  him.  And  despite  his  rags  he  was  a  lovely  boy. 
Those  dark  tearful  eyes  had  an  expression  that  went  to 
the  heart ;  those  uncombed  locks  overhung  features 
which,  without  being  regularly  handsorrre,  were  intensely 
attractive.  In  short,  it  was  one  of  those  boy-faces  which 
Murillo  loved  to  paint.  What  shall  I  say,  but  that  the 
child  from  the  first  moment  caught  my  heart  ?  As  no  one 
cared  to  have  him,  I  took  him  with  me. 

His  mother  had  gone  by  the  name  of  Rosalind.  The 
boy  just  called  her  "  mother,"  and  knew  no  other  name. 
But  the  appellation  Rosalind  to  all  appearance  pertained 
to  the  actress  only,  and  there  was  nothing  left  to  give  a 
clue  to  her  identity.  If  there  had  been  anything  the 
poor  creature  took  it  with  her  to  her  watery  grave.  The 
only  thing  leaving  a  faint  hope  of  eventual  discovery  was 
the  figure  of  a  swan  surrounded  by  unintelligible  hiero- 
glyphics imperishably  etched  upon  the  boy's  right  arm. 
He  went  by  the  common  name  of  Martin,  and  spoke  a 
jargon,  a  jumble  rather  of  several  languages,  but  fraught 
with  unmistakable  echoes  of  my  own  native  tongue. 

I  took  him  with  me.  Three  we  were  on  setting  out, 
three  returning — but  what  a  change  ! 

He  grew  up  in  my  care,  a  nameless  foundling.  I 
never  discovered  the  faintest  light  to  unravel  the  mystery 
of  his  birth  ;  but  I  always  believed  that  the  swan  upon 
his  arm  sooner  or  later  would  assist  in  explaining  his 
extraction.  Martin  hardly  ever  quitted  my  presence, 
and  people  said  I  had  adopted  him  by  way  of  a  plaything. 
Maybe  there  was  some  truth  in  this.  The  boy's  lower 
nature  blossomed  luxuriantly,  at  the  cost,  surely,  of  his 
moral  development.  Conscious  of  force,  and  exuberant 
with  unshaped  longings,  passionate  and  self-willed,  he 
was  nowise  easily  managed.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I 


l8  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

sometimes  took  an  evil  delight  in  playing  with  the  child's 
slumbering  passions,  now  exciting  them  to  full  liberty, 
now  reigning  them  up  suddenly.  Still,  he  was  more  than 
a  plaything  to  me  :  he  ruled  my  heart.  This  may  partly 
be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  I  saw  my  own  nature 
reflected  in  the  boy's  ;  perhaps,  also,  the  strange  affection 
was  merely  fancy-born,  the  whim  of  a  moment  growing 
into  habit.  That  much  is  certain,  I  loved  the  boy.  And 
I  could  count  them  on  my  fingers,  I  fear,  whom  I  loved 
beside  myself. 

The  child  responded  to  my  affection  ardently,  passion- 
ately. It  sometimes  happened,  when  I  had  teased  him 
in  ungenerous  amusement,  and  he,  stung  to  fury,  refused 
submission,  that  I,  in  assertion  of  power,  would  place 
my  foot  upon  his  neck,  when  he  would  humble  himself 
suddenly,  and,  clasping  my  knees,  would  wail  for  for- 
giveness. At  such  moments  he  would  have  borne  the 
vilest  cruelty,  patiently  hoping  for  a  return  of  tender- 
ness. He  whom  the  direst  punishment  at  times  could 
not  move,  now  spent  himself  in  tears  at  my  feet,  looking 
to  me  as  to  the  one  soul  beside  him  in  the  universe. 
That  love  of  the  child's  touched  me  deeply,  appealing  to 
all  that  was  best  and  truest  in  my  heart.  We  would 
make  peace  again  and  renew  the  bond  of  affection, 
which  was  tied  all  the  faster  for  such  incidents.  Thus 
love  moved  between  us,  swelling  in  tides,  now  of  wrath, 
now  of  tenderness,  till  suddenly  I  discovered  that  the 
boy  had  grown — grown  to  be  a  man  in  my  likeness, 
strong  in  the  flesh  and  of  powerful  self-love. 

And  the  time  was  which  ripened  into  a  crisis  between 
us,  worse  than  anything  that  had  happened  before.  He 
had  defied  me  where  I  could  never  brook  defiance,  and  I 
cast  him  from  me.  How  could  the  fellow  dare  to  rival 
me  in  woman's  favor  ! 

He  left  me,  insulted  but  unconquered,  and  burning 
with  scorn.  I  should  never  see  him  again,  he  said  ;  and 
he  was  the  man  to  do  as  he  threatened.  Some  time  after 
I  received  a  letter  from  him,  offering  me  the  alternative 
of  yielding  to  him  or  losing  him — he  would  go  to  the 
Turks,  to  the  devil,  he  said.  I  took  no  notice  of  that 
ultimatum,  but  demanded  his  entire  surrender,  uncondi- 
tionally. Time  passed  and  I  began  to  think  I  had  lost 
him.  It  was  a  fear  which  troubled  me,  preyed  upon  me; 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  19 

for  whatever  our  disagreement,  I  loved  him  still.  And  if 
indeed  he  were  lost,  my  heart  told  me  that  I — I  had 
worked  his  ruin. 

And  then  I  fell  ill  of  that  last  illness,  ending  in  death. 
There  came  a  second  letter  against  all  expectation,  mys- 
teriously expressed  but  plain  of  import.  He  wrote 
humbly,  gently,  as  I  had  never  known  him. 

He  entreated  me  to  see  him  ;  he  would  come  back  to 
me  a  repentant  child.  He  had  found  out  that  which 
would  heal  every  breach  between  us  :  a  Higher  Power 
had  spoken.  There  was  mention  of  her  in  the  letter,  but 
all  was  so  broken,  so  ambiguously  expressed,  that  it  left 
me  quite  in  the  dark  as  to  whether  his  discovery  con- 
cerned himself  or  her. 

The  letter  remained  unanswered  ;  I  was  too  ill  to 
write,  and  cared  not  to  trust  any  third  person  with  a 
message  between  us. 

What,  then,  was  his  discovery  to  have  worked  such  a 
change  in  him  ?  and  whom  did  it  concern,  himself  or 
her  ?  That  question  troubled  me  to  my  dying  moment, 
and  who  knows  but  that  it  proved  a  nail  also  in  my 
coffin.  Erinnys-like  it  pursued  me  to  very  hell,  adding 
more  than  anything  else  to  my  torment  here.  As  a  live 
coal  it  burns  upon  my  soul.  What  was  it  about  him  or 
about  her  ?  And  there  are  other  questions  :  How  did  it 
go  with  him  when  I  had  cast  him  off — I,  whom  alone  he 
loved  and  knew  upon  earth  ?  Was  I  indeed  the  cause  of 
his  ruin  ?  Alas  !  these  things  are  a  hell  in  hell ! 


LETTER   III. 

How  long  I  sat,  shut  in  with  myself  and  darkness, 
how  long  that  terrible  night  continued,  I  cannot  tell — 
maybe  a  year,  maybe  some  hours  only.  This  only  I 
know,  that  in  the  space  of  that  single  night  I  lived  over 
again  the  whole  of  my  earthly  life,  and  what  inconceiv- 
able horrors  are  included  in  this  statement ! 

Light  broke  at  last,  but  oh  how  slowly  !  The  walls  of 
darkness  seemed  to  shift,  making  way  for  the  faintest 
streak  of  dawn.  This  time  of  expectation,  of  hope — if 
so  I  may  call  it — was  the  least  painful  time  I  had  yet 


20  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

known  in  hell.  And  as  I  waited,  longed  for  the  return- 
ing light,  a  shadow,  as  it  were,  of  forgetfulness  wrapped 
me  about.  Ah,  surely  forgetfulness  is  the  one  state  of 
bliss  to  be  imagined  here  !  Did  I  speak  of  light  ?  Alas 
it  is  only  less  of  darkness — light  there  is  n^ne  in  hell. 
And  forgetfulness  is  not  real,  but  illusive  here. 

But  poor  as  the  light  was,  it  roused  me  to  something 
like  love  of  existence  even.  I  gathered  up  my  wretched 
being  and  went  my  way,  following  the  direction  of  the 
breaking  dawn.  How  long  I  moved,  or  how  far,  is  of 
no  consequence.  The  terrors  of  hell  were  about  me. 
Presently,  however,  I  reached  a  spot  where  I  could  rest. 
Did  I  say  rest  ?  Once  for  all,  let  me  beg  you  not  to  be 
misled  by  such  meaningless  expressions — meaningless 
here,  and  proving  old  habit  merely.  In  this  place  of 
anguish  rest,  in  the  sense  you  take  it,  naturally  is  impos- 
sible ;  all  I  meant  to  say  is  that  I  reached  a  spot  where 
the  pressure  of  motion  quitted  me  for  a  while,  and  I 
stopped. 

It  is  strange  how  soon  I  came  to  understand  my  sur- 
roundings, how  soon  I  found  my  way  among  the  vain 
appearances  and  the  wretched  nothingness  about  me. 
Instinctively  I  adapted  myself  to  what  I  saw,  doing  as 
others  did — in  a  manner  however,  shaped  by  my  own 
individuality.  I  knew  I  was  only  adding  my  paltry  share, 
that  hell  might  be,  what  it  is,  a  caricature  of  the  world 
and  her  doings.  I  knew,  moreover,  that  I  was  being 
mocked  the  while,  a  very  fool  of  vanities. 

You  must  know,  then,  that  each  wretched  being  here 
is  moved  by  an  irresistible  impulse  to  imitate  his  life  on 
earth,  to  continue  what  in  sinful  folly  he  worked  in  that 
life.  And,  strange  to  say,  as  I  have  already  hinted,  we 
can  all  obtain  here  what  we  like  ;  one  need  but  think  of 
anything,  and  there  it  is.  Passion  and  wrongful  desires 
rule  here  as  they  do  in  the  world,  only  the  more  horribly, 
being  void  of  substance.  In  the  world  they  are  clothed 
— clothed  in  a  semblance  of  beauty  even ;  lawless  and 
pernicious  though  they  are,  they  at  least  own  the  gar- 
ment of  nature.  But  here  they  are  mere  skeletons,  un- 
clothed of  the  flesh,  an  insult  to  nature,  continuing  in  the 
evil  bent  of  former  habit,  yet  incapable  fof  aught  but 
showing  their  miserable  nakedness.  For  the  imaginings 
of  hell  are  hollow  and  empty,  void  of  truth  and  reality, 


LETTERS  FROM   HELL.  21 

bereft  of  all  means  of  satisfaction.  And  yet  the  very 
punishment  of  hell  consists  in  this,  that  we  are  driven  to 
conform  to  this  maddening  unreality,  this  death-breath- 
ing nothingness.  No  matter  how  deeply  conscious  we 
are  of  the  vanity  of  our  doings — no  matter  how  we  loathe 
them — they  have  come  to  be  our  masters  ;  we  are  driven, 
helplessly  driven,  to  be  for  .ever  trying  to  be  what  we 
were  on  earth. 

Supposing,  then,  that  a  number  of  spirits  agree  we 
will  have  a  town  here,  that  town  straightway  appears  on 
the  scene  ;  or  if  others  say,  let  us  have  a  church  here 
and  a  theatre  and  a  public  park,  or  woods  and  a  lake  and 
mountains,  it  is  all  there  as  soon  as  imagined.  And  not 
only  that  each  one  sees  for  himself  what  he  has  called  up 
in  vain  desire  :  it  u  seen  by  all  with  whom  he  comes 
into  contact.  But  everything  is  shadowy — nay,  less  than 
shadowy  :  it  is  empty  conceit.  Such  a  state  naturally 
includes  change  upon  change,  incessant  unrest ;  this  also 
is  vanity. 

Neither  is  there  any  lack  of  assisting  spirits  to  carry 
into  effect  any  desired  show.  Does  any  one  here  wish 
10  set  up  an  establishment,  to  live  in  style,  as  the  phrase 
went  on  earth,  he  is  straightway  surrounded  by  faithless 
stewards,  drunken  butlers,  thieving  servants  of  all  kinds. 
If  you  imagine  that  no  one  would  care  to  be  a  servant 
here,  you  are  mistaken,  for  the  inhabitants  of  hell,  in  a 
mere  outward  way  also,  carry  on  the  habits  of  life.  Is 
there  any  one  here  who  likes  to  general  an  army,  he  will 
find  plenty  of  bloodthirsty  ruffians  to  obey  his  behests, 
provided  indeed  he  was  a  general  in  his  days  gone  by  ; 
for,  mind  you,  without  a  name  a  man  even  here  could 
not  make  his  way. 

Upon  this  information  you  will  not  be  surprised  to 
learn  that  I  have  a  pleasant  abode  here  not  far  from 
town,  the  image  of  my  own  old  country-house,  with  park 
and  river  to  please  my  fancy  ;  that  I  am  a  gentleman,  and 
see  much  company.  I  frequent  fashionable  society  now 
as  formerly,  since  it  yields  me  gratification,  both  private 
and  public.  Few  men  knew  and  drained  the  sources  of 
enjoyment  more  thoroughly  than  I  did.  But  now  ?  Ah, 
pity  me  not,  for  your  pity  cannot  alter  the  fact.  This 
then  is  the  misery  of  hell  for  me  ;  I  am  hungering  after 
enjoyment,  pure  or  impure,  but  there  is  no  sense  left  to 


22  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

gratify  ;    reality  has  vanished,  the  greed  only  remains. 
Is  it  not  madness? 

And  let  me  whisper  it  to  you,  I  am  daily  meeting 
friends  and  acquaintances  ;  but  I  shall  not  betray  them, 
remembering  how  well-bred  the  world  is.  It  would  be  a 
shame  to  hurt  the  feelings  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  of 
respectable  position  by  insinuating  that  any  of  their 
relatives  are  here.  Let  them  call  their  departed  ones 
blessed  :  it  will  not  lessen  the  torments  they  endure. 

Shall  I  venture  upon  a  local  description  of  hell  ?  I 
doubt  I  shall  not  be  able,  but  will  make  the  attempt. 

Hell  has  its  own  geography,  but  no  one  can  tell  how 
far  its  realm  extends  ;  it  is  infinite — that  maybe  is  the 
most  correct  estimate  to  be  given.  I  believe  earth,  sun, 
and  moon,  and  all  the  planets,  would  not  nearly  fill  it. 
But  what  foolish  talk,  there  being  neither  space  nor 
time  here.  And  as  for  boundaries  ? — on  one  side  only, 
far,  far  away,  hell  has  its  boundary ;  whether  any  one 
ever  reached  it  I  cannot  tell. 

In  the  direction  of  that  pale  twilight,  which  decreases 
and  increases  alternately,  there  is  a  great  gulf,  a  fathom- 
less abyss,  separating  hell  from  Paradise.  It  is  Paradise 
whence  that  radiance  proceeds.  And  from  the  abyss,  a 
regular  intervals  apparently,  dead  darkness  gushes  forth, 
repressing  the  faint  far-off  light  of  heaven,  till  the  last 
ghostly  glimmer  is  gone.  Then  it  is  night  with  us,  the 
abyss  appearing  as  a  lake  of  molten  fire,  but  its  flames 
are  void  of  light-giving  power.  That  is  Satan's  residence, 
and  the  abode  of  damned  souls.  I  speak  of  it  with  fear> 
and  trembling.  Gradually  the  abyss,  as  it  were,  eats  up 
its  own  darkness,  the  fair  light  reappearing  and  growing, 
till  we  see  it  as  a  tender  radiance,  clear  as  the  twilight 
of  a  summer  morn.  And  at  times,  as  though  a  curtain 
of  mist  and  cloud  were  suddenly  rent  asunder,  a  cataract 
of  light  bursts  forth  victoriously,  overflowing  from  the 
heart  of  glory.  Hell  stands  dazzled,  struck  to  the  core 
as  it  were  For  in  beauty  and  bliss  eternal  a  vision  of 
Paradise  is  given  to  the  damned  ones — no,  not  the  dam- 
ned ones,  for  though  cast  into  hell  we  are  not  yet 
judged  ;  it  is  given  to  those  who,  like  the  rich  man,  lift 
up  their  eyes  in  torment.  And  it  is  not  only  Paradise 
we  see,  but  the  blessed  ones  who  dwell  there. 

All  this  I  have  learned, — as  yet  I  have  not  seen   it. 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  23 

But  now,  since  dawn  is  increasing,  we  seem  to  be  near- 
ing  that  hour, — shall  I  say  that  happy  hour  ?  ah  no — 
most  dread  !  most  dread!  I  cannot  tell  how  long  the 
light  goes  on  increasing  or  decreasing  ;  there  is  no  judg- 
ing of  the  length  of  dawn,  as  there  is  no  judging  of  the 
duration  of  night  itself.  According  to  human  ideas,  it 
would  seem  to  be  a  space  of  several  years.  The  vision  of 
Paradise,  I  feel  sure,  fills  but  a  moment,  but  some  call  it 
long,  fearfully  long.  Shall  I  rejoice  to  see  that  moment, 
or  must  I  dread  it  ? 

Again,  hell  has  a  river,  the  waters  of  which  are  heavy, 
dark,  and  muddy.  You  will  be  thinking  of  the  waters  of 
Lethe,  Ah  no,  my  friend,  there  is  no  Lethe  here  whence 
souls  might  draw  forgetfulness  :  that  is  a  happy  myth  ; 
but  the  river  I  speak  of  is  real,  terribly  real.  It  is  fed  by 
the  falsehood  and  injustice  of  the  world;  every  lie,  every 
wrong,  helps  to  swell  it.  That  is  why  its  waters  are  so 
turbid,  so  fearfully  foul,  looking  like  clotted  blood  at 
times.  And  sometimes,  when  the  world  is  more  wicked 
than  usual,  the  river  rises  and  floods  its  banks,  leaving 
stench  and  pestilence  behind  it.  It  is  scarcely  to  be 
endured.  But  we,  hardened  spectres  of  hell,  we  endure. 

Sometimes,  I  am  told,  it  rains  here  and  snows,  but  not 
so  often  as  one  would  think.  It  happens  when  folly  and 
vanity  upon  earth  overflow  their  measure.  The  world 
can  stand  a  good  deal,  we  know,  but  there  are  times 
when  even  the  world  has  too  much  of  it.  The  surplus 
then  will  drop  into  hell,  and  we  say,  by  way  of  former 
fashion  of  speech  :  Look  it  rains  ;  or,  Behold  it  snows! 

There  is  in  hell  not  only  a  certain  natural  succession 
of  time,  but  also  something  of  social  and  political  order. 
Families  herd  together,  and  souls  of  one  and  the  same 
century  like  to  congregate.  And  there  is  a  kind  of  pro- 
gressive development.  The  most  recent  arrivals,  as  a 
rule,  take  the  lowest  place,  advancing  to  make  room  for 
fresh  troops  appearing.  Those  who  in  the  world  were 
of  one  way  of  thinking,  or  alike  in  manner  of  acting,  soon 
meet  here,  though  of  different  nationality  or  separate 
centuries.  Thus  there  is  here  a  town  of  injustice,  called 
also  the  town  of  politicians  ;  there  is  a  town  of  the  Holy 
Inquisition  ;  a  gigantic  city  of  Jews,  of  Mormons  ;  a  town 
of  Antediluvians,  and  many  others. 

I  begin  to  understand  the  moving  springs  of  hell.     It 


24  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

is  insatiate  desire  on  the  one  hand,  and  remorse  on  the 
other — I  had  almost  said  sorrow  ;  but  that  is  too  sweet  a 
grace,  admitting  of  sorrow  for  sin,  for  opportunity  wasted, 
and  that  is  unknown  here  ;  it  is  a  dull  flinty  grief,  a  mere 
wailing  for  pain.  The  punishment  of  hell  is  two-fold, 
but  after  all  it  is  the  self-same  retribution.  Some  are 
driven  continuously  to  brood  over  the  same  evil  passions 
they  indulged  in  on  earth,  satisfaction  alone  being  ab- 
sent ;  or  with  horror  and  loathing  are  obliged  again  and 
again  to  commit  in  the  spirit  the  self-same  crimes  that 
polluted  their  days  in  the  flesh.  The  miser  forever  is 
dreaming  of  riches,  the  voluptuary  of  uncleanness,  the 
glutton  of  feasting,  the  murderer  of  his  bloody  deed. 
Others,  on  the  contrary,  are  pursuing  the  very  things 
they  neglected  on  earth  ;  they  know  it  is  hopeless,  but 
pursue  them  they  must.  Thus  men  of  unjust  dealing  are 
anxiously  trying  to  right  the  wrong,  the  unmerciful  to  do 
deeds  of  charity,  the  unnatural  parent  to  live  for  her 
children,  the  suicide  to  prolong  his  days. 

But  whatever  we  suffer,  our  torment  is  not  to  be  viewed 
in  the  light  of  final  punishment — that  is  coming — we 
await  the  day  of  doom  ;  no,  it  is  merely  the  natural  con- 
sequence of  our  life  on  earth.  Oh,  men  and  women,  yet 
walking  on  earth,  consider  this  !  that  all  sin,  great  or 
small,  has  its  own  irretrievable  consequence,  which — ay, 
think  of  it — extends  far  beyond  the  limits  of  life,  even 
into  hell.  And  if  mere  consequence  may  be  so  terrible, 
what  must  be  the  punishment  to  come  ? 

This  then  is  the  law  of  hell  :  we  are  not  tormented — 
we  torment  ourselves  !  Yet  remember  that  in  dying 
everything  depends  on  whether  we  lived  in  the  faith  of 
the  Son  of  God,  who  gave  His  life  that  men  might  be 
saved.  Our  sins  have  that  dread  importance  in  as  far  as 
they  testify  that  we  did  not  believe.  Do  you  marvel 
that  I  speak  of  God  ?  Ah  me,  He  is  still  our  God  !  And 
we  know  that  there  is  a  Son  of  God  who  came  into  the 
world  to  save  sinners,  who  loved  them  unto  death,  even 
the  death  of  the  Cross.  But  we  know  nothing  of  the 
way  of  salvation  :  everything  is  forgotten — the  very  name 
of  the  Saviour.  We  consume  ourselves  in  terrible  efforts 
to  remember,  were  it  but  the  faintest  remnant  of  saving 
knowledge,  but  alas  it  is  vain — not  even  His  name  ! 
Could  we  remember  that  name,  call  it  back  to  our  hearts, 


LETTERS    FROM  ~  HELL.  25 

I  doubt  not — I  doubt  not — even  we  might  be  saved.  But 
it  is  gone — it  is  too  late  !  too  late ! 

It  is  incredible  how  much  I  have  forgotten  ;  indeed,  I 
might  say  I  have  forgotten  everything  except  myself. 
Yes,  that  is  it.  I  have  not  forgotten  self ;  on  the  con- 
trary, whatever  of  the  past  concerns  my  person  and  my 
life  has  followed  me  hither  with  a  minuteness  of  detail  as 
strange  as  it  is  painful.  But  the  clothes  of  self,  as  it 
were, — the  things  I  once  possessed  by  knowledge,  by  in- 
tellectual acquirement, — they  have  vanished  together 
with  the  gifts  of  mammon  and  the  vanities  of  the  flesh. 
You  will  not  be  surprised  then  that  the  feeling  of  naked- 
ness is  so  terribly  present  with  me. 

I  have  brought  nothing  hither  but  myself.  And  what 
comprises  this  self  but  a  burning  remorse  which  can 
never  be  stilled  ;  a  greed  of  desire  which  can  never  be 
satisfied  ;  an  unquenchable  longing  for  things  left  be- 
hind ;  innumerable  recollections  of  sins  great  and  small, 
causing  insufferable  anguish,  all  being  equally  bitter, 
equally  fraught  with  vainest  regret  !  This  is  the  picture 
of  myself,  O  God, — of  myself  in  hell. 


LETTER    IV. 

THE  circumstances  in  which  I  grew  up  in  the  world 
could  not  be  called  happy.  My  parents  were  so  unlike 
in  character  and  so  little  suited  to  each  other  that  people 
were  fully  justified  in  wondering  how  they  could  have 
married  at  all.  My  father  was  a  plain  homely  man, 
somewhat  retiring  and  unassuming ;  he  was  the  head  of 
a  well-to-do  house  of  business  of  considerable  mercantile 
importance.  But  he  was  not  at  first  sight  credited  with 
personal  weight  or  influence  ;  people  would  easily  slight 
him.  And  yet  there  was  that  in  the  quiet  expression  of 
his  face,  in  the  calm  clearness  of  his  eye,  which  convinced 
those  who  took  the  trouble  of  knowing  him  that  he  was 
not  a  man  of  the  ordinary  type. 

My  mother,  whom  I  always  considered  the  chief  person 
in  the  house,  was  a  woman  of  rare  perfections,  very 
handsome,  very  gracious,  and  highly  esteemed.  Age 
even  flattered  her,  dealing  kindly  by  her  beauty ;  but 


26  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

that,  perhaps,  was  due  to  the  fact  that  her  life  never 
flowed  in  the  channels  of  violent  passion.  Some  believed 
her  cold  and  wanting  in  feeling ;  but  it  would  be  a  great 
mistake  to  imagine  her  without  the  warmth  of  energy. 
She  was  a  clever  woman,  and  although  she  never  asserted 
herself  so  as  to  give  offense,  she  always  managed  to  have 
her  way.  Who,  indeed,  could  have  dreamt  to  turn  her 
will  aside,  since  I,  her  idol  and  her  darling,  never  once 
succeeded  in  going  against  it?  She  was  a  remarkably 
clever  woman. 

The  world  admired  her ;  whether  she  was  loved  I 
cannot  say.  Maybe  she  loved  no  one  excepting  myself. 
Did  I  love  her  ?  Well,  if  I  must  answer  the  question 
honestly,  I  am  bound  to  say  I  also  rather  admired  than 
loved  her.  And,  indeed,  she  was  worthy  of  all  admira- 
tion. Never  anywhere  did  I  meet  a  woman  who  was  so 
thoroughly  what  the  world  calls  a  lady — mind  you,  I 
mean  a  lady  in  the  world's  own  acceptation.  She  was 
just  perfect — perfect  in  beauty,  in  manner,  in  bearing,  in 
dress,  in  all  the  ways  of  life  prescribed  by  society ;  per- 
fect too  in  the  fulfillment  of  what  she  considered  her 
duty,  irreproachable  in  conduct,  a  very  pattern  of  piety, 
appearing  clothed  in  spotlessness  as  with  a  garment ; 
never  saying  or  doing  or  permitting  anything  that  might 
breathe  suspicion  on  her  perfection.  In  short,  she  was  a 
lady  to  the  least  movement  of  her  finger,  to  the  minutest 
folds  of  her  dress.  And  she  preserved  her  reputation, 
even  adding  to  it  daily. 

Looking  back  now,  I  understand  her — as  indeed  I 
understand  the  whole  of  the  sad  past — with  a  new 
insight.  I  see  plainJy  now  that  to  her  the  world  was 
everything  :  it  was  her  guide,  its  approval  being  the  aim 
of  her  every  ambition.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  by  this 
that  she  cared  not  for  things  good  and  beautiful  in  any 
other  light,  and  she  really  cultivated  religion.  No  one 
could  appear  more  assiduously  obedient  to  the  behests 
of  piety  than  my  mother,  with  her  veneration  for  the 
-clergy,  her  regular  attendance  at  church  ;  and  no  one 
ever  quitted  her  presence  without  feeling  edified.  Not 
undeservedly  might  duty  and  propriety  be  termed  the 
guardian  saints  that  watched  her  every  step. 

The  stately  mansion  we  inhabited  was  divided  in  two, 
figuratively  speaking,  my  mother  presiding  in  one  way — 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  27 

my  father,  though  quietly,  in  another  ;  I,  their  child, 
seemed  to  belong  altogether  to  my  mother's  dominion.' 
I  shrank  from  my  father,  feeling  afraid  of  his  quiet  eye. 
Apparently  he  was  satisfied  with  this  state  of  affairs,  but 
I  feel  sure  now  that  in  his  heart  he  loved  me. 

My  mother's  rule' was  marked  by  gaiety  ;  she  loved  to 
live  in  style.  My  father,  excused  by  business,  but  rarely 
took  part  in  her  doings  ;  and  if  he  made  his  appearance 
at  times,  I,  foolish  child,  felt  almost  ashamed  of  his 
presence, —  he  looked  so  little  like  the  master  of  the 
house  in  the  simplicity  of  his  habits  and  unpretending 
ways. 

There  was  another  inmate  of  our  house,  my  father's 
sister,  strangely  contrasting  with  my  mother.  The  world 
had  begun  to  call  her  an  old  maid  ;  and  she  certainly 
was  peculiar,  a  mixture  of  unfashionableness  and  singu- 
larity. People  called  her  eccentric,  whimsical  ;  and 
indeed  one  never  knew  what  she  might  not  be  doing 
next.  She  was  no  "  lady,"  like  my  mother,  and  nowise 
perfect,  though  she  could  look  remarkably  ladylike 
whenever  she  thought  it  worth  her  while.  She  was 
extremely  natural,  her  heart  always  bubbling  over  with 
its  inmost  thoughts  ;  there  was  something  utterly  naive 
in  her  straightforward  openness  and  the  unstudied  ways 
of  her  conversation.  My  mother,  I  believe,  thought  her 
queer  ;  but  in  truth  she  was  the  only  person  who  ever 
knew  how  to  call  up  a  smile  in  my  father's  face.  And 
this  she  looked  upon  as  her  own  special  vocation,  ever 
mindful  of  it.  No  ;  Aunt  Betty  could  nowise  be  held 
up  as  a  pattern  ;  and  as  for  perfections,  she  had  but  one 
— a  heart  brimful  of  kindness,  ever  ready  to  sacrifice 
itself,  making  it  her  one  delight  to  see  others  happy.  In 
fact  she  never  thought  o'f  herself.  And  that  heart  of 
hers  was  filled  with  a  faith  as  deep  and  fervent  and 
single-minded  as  any  child's.  No  doubt  her  Christian 
life  knew  its  times  of  dearth  as  of  plenty— it  could  not 
be  otherwise  with  a  nature  like  hers — but  her  heart, 
nevertheless,  was  firmly  grounded.  She  had  God  in  her 
heart.  And  though  she  might  get  entangled  with  her 
duties,  and  even  blunder  about  God's  commandments, 
the  one  commandment,  fulfilling  the  law,  ever  shone  as  a 
beacon  to  her  soul  that,  loving  God,  we  should  love  one 
another. 


28  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

She  had  hardly  ever  been  separated  from  my  father, 
and  now  she  seemed  indispensable  in  his  house — that 
great  two-parted  house.  If  I  were  to  call  her  our  Cin- 
derella, it  would  most  certainly  be  an  ill-chosen  com- 
parison, and  yet  a  true  one.  She  was  queen  of  the 
household  ;  but  in  that  position  she  managed  to  be  the 
servant  of  all.  Every  trouble,  every  care,  she  took  upon 
her  shoulders,  wearing  herself  out  for  each  and  all  of  us. 
She  liked  it.  Any  attempt  to  oppose  her  in  this  respect 
roused  her  self-assertion,  meek  and  mild  though  she  was 
in  aught  beside.  My  mother,  being  the  lady,  never 
touched  domestic  concerns  with  a  finger  ;  everything  was 
given  up  to  Aunt  Betty,  even  the  care  for  myself  and  my 
father.  But  household  worries  were  the  least  of  her 
vicarious  burden  ;  she  felt  called  to  take  upon  herself 
whatever  was  disagreeable  to  any  one  else,  making  her- 
self a  shield  and  warder-off  in  every  possible  direction, 
and  being  the  willing  scapegoat  even,  if  thereby  she 
could  comfort  blundering  servant  or  careless  child.  She 
appeared  to  consider  this  her  life's  calling, — she  who, 
despite  her  simplicity,  was  by  far  the  wisest  of  us, — and 
indefatigable  were  her  attempts  to  cover  the  want  of  har- 
mony between  my  parents.  She  might  in  truth  be 
called  the  bond  of  union  between  them.  It  was  evidently 
my  father  for  whom  she  thus  sacrificed  herself,  loving 
him  with  a  sisterly  devotion  as  beautiful  as  rare.  How 
well  she  understood  how  to  brighten  his  home,  to  turn 
aside  the  edge  of  disappointment,  and  flood  the  place 
with  her  own  abundant  warmth.  Was  he  sad, — how  she 
would  cheer  him,  and  with  a  show  of  gaiety,  hiding  per- 
haps her  own  aching  heart,  strive  to  heal  the  breach  that 
separated  him  from  his  wife,  and,  alas  !  from  his  child  as 
well. 

And  how  lovingly  she  did  her  very  best  for  me, — the 
sweetest,  kindest  of  aunts  !  My  mother  indulged  me 
fondly  ;  I  ought  not  to  say  that  she  spoiled  me, — her 
cleverness  stood  in  the  way  of  that  ;  but  I  owe  it  to  my 
aunt  that,  in  spite  of  all  indulgence,  I  was  a  good  and 
even  pious  child.  It  was  she  who  taught  me  to  read  my 
Bible,  sowing  the  good  seed  in  my  heart,  and  nothing  in 
after  life  ever  did  more  for  me  than  her  loving  and  God- 
fearing example.  The  recollection  of  that  early  time  is 
unspeakably  sweet  to  me  even  now  in  the  bitterness  of 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  29 

hell.  With  what  power  of  love  she  drew  me  is  plainly 
evident  from  the  fact  that  whenever  1  could  I  stole  away 
from  the  queenly  presence  of  my  mother — though  there 
was  never  a  plaything  I  wished  for  but  she  gave  it  me — 
to  seek  Aunt  Betty,  trotting  behind  her  to  kitchen  and 
storeroom,  or  spending  hours  in  the  one  little  chamber 
she  called  her  own.  That  was  the  happiest  time  of  my 
life. 

Thanks  to  Aunt  Betty,  then,  I  was  brought  up  in  the 
fear  of  God  ;  but  though  the  seed  was  sown,  and  the 
flower  even  blossomed,  it  never  yielded  fruit.  As  I  grew 
up,  the  power  of  the  sensual  was  upon  me,  and  I  early 
conformed  to  the  ways  of  the  world.  Aunt  Betty  died  ; 
she  had  positively  worn  herself  to  death.  At  such  cost 
the  service  of  love  at  times  is  given.  Her  loss  moved  me 
deeply,  but  the  impression  did  not  last.  I  had  begun  to 
attend  at  my  father's  counting-house.  My  mother  had 
destined  me  for  the  army,  or,  if  possible,  to  some  diplo- 
matic career.  I  was  gifted  with  my  mother's  beauty, 
was  heir  to  my  father's  fortune,  and  not  wanting  in 
ability.  She  took  pride  in  me,  and  naturally  wished  I 
should  be  a  credit  to  her  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  But 
although  apart  from  Aunt  Betty  I  had  always  been  left 
to  my  mother's  guidance,  my  father  strenuously  opposed 
her  wishes  in  this  respect ;  I  should  follow  in  his  foot- 
steps and  carry  on  the  time-honored  firm.  Life,  he  said, 
would  yield  its  own  battles  apart  from  the  army.  He 
was  right,  but  a  sorry  soldier  I  proved. 

I  was  gifted  with  the  pleasant  but  dangerous  talent  of 
making  friends  wherever  I  went — a  pernicious  talent 
even,  with  a  disposition  like  mine.  Not  only  did  the 
world  open  her  arms  to  receive  me,  but  to  clasp  me,  as 
the  fair  nymphs  of  the  well  clasped  Hylas,  the  beautiful 
youth,  dragging  him  helplessly  to  the  deep.  Even  before 
my  lips  wore  the  first  downy  sign  of  manhood,  I  was 
already  corrupted.  Of  misleading  companions  there 
was  no  lack,  those  of  my  own  sex  not  being  the  worst. 
Such  things,  however,  avenge  themselves  :  being  misled 
at  first,  I  began  to  mislead. 

But  being  brought  under  my  father's  immediate 
influence,  he  did  his  utmost  to  lift  me  from  the  slough, 
sparing  neither  admonition,  nor  rebuke,  nor  even  restraint. 
It  availed  not  ;  I  evaded  his  guidance,  and  even 


30  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

deceived  him.  More  successful  were  my  mother's 
attempts  ;  for  while,  on  the  one  hand,  she  managed  to 
let  me  see  that  she  could  condone,  if  not  actually  excuse, 
she  yet  so  powerfully  pleaded  the  claims  of  prudence  and 
position  that  I  promised  to  mend  my  ways.  And  I  did 
mend  them.  I  carefully  considered  the  extreme  of 
dissipation,  avoiding  discovery  and  scandal. 

Self-restraint  was  not  without  effort,  for  my  nature 
thirsted  after  pleasure.  But  though  passion-ruled,  I  had 
a  strong  will  to  act  as  a  curb  where  I  chose,  and  the 
worldly  wisdom  of  my  mother  taught  me  the  advisability 
of  exerting  that  will. 

I  was  about  one-and-twenty  when  my  father  died  ; 
never  since  we  lost  Aunt  Betty,  can  I  remember  having 
seen  a  smile  on  his  face — there  was  no  one  to  call  it  up 
when  she  had  gone.  And  now  he  left  us.  My  mother 
retired  on  her  jointure — satisfied,  as  she  said,  to  have 
done  her  duty  in  the  world.  And  I,  at  an  early  age,  was 
admitted  to  a  partnership  in  the  firm,  of  which  my 
father's  brother  now  was  head.  Soon  after  I  fell 
seriously  ill. 

This  brings  me  to  one  of  the  darkest  episodes  of  my 
life.  It  is  but  an  episode,  a  draught  of  passing  enjoy- 
ment, but  fraught  with  the  origin  of  my  deepest  woe. 
Could  I  be  washed  of  all  my  sin,  this  one  dark  recollec- 
tion would  never  leave  me. 

The  illness  happily  had  been  got  over,  leaving  me 
prostrate.  It  was  early  in  the  spring.  My  medical  at- 
tendant advised  me  to  leave  town  as  soon  as  possible  for 
the  country  or  the  seaside.  But  I  was  a  prey  to  ill- 
humor  and  fretfulness.  I  liked  the  advice,  and  did  not 
like  it.  I  did  not  care  for  our  own  place  in  the  country; 
it  was  not  quiet  enough,  I  said,  and  I  hated  the  sea.  As 
it  chanced  a  sudden  whim  came  to  the  rescue.  We  had 
been  to  the  lakes  the  previous  autumn  ;  memory  carried 
me  back  to  a  keeper's  lodge,  delightfully  situated  in  a 
leafy  solitude,  a  very  bower  of  clematis  and  roses.  Peace 
herself  could  not  dream  of  a  more  congenial  retreat.  If 
I  was  to  go  for  change  of  air  that  was  the  place  I  should 
fancy. 

Difficulties  were  got  over,  and  I  went.  An  honest  old 
keeper  lived  there  with  his  daughter  Annie,  she  being  on 
the  verge  of  womanhood.  Annie  ! — how  little  did  I 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  31 

think  that  this  name  one  day  would   sound  so  terrible  to 
my  ears. 

I  recovered  quickly  and  strength  returned.  But 
lovely  as  the  spot  was,  life  without  incident  did  not 
amuse  me.  From  sheer  ennui  I  began  to  make  love  to 
Annie.  She  was  an  inexperienced  country-girl ;  but  the. 
very  naivete  of  her  ignorance  was  enchanting.  She  was 
as  free  and  natural  as  the  birds  of  the  dell,  a  very  out- 
come of  her  surroundings,  fresh  as  the  dewy  morn  and 
fragrant  as  the  woodland  air.  Wild  and  untaught,  yet 
sweetly  delicate,  that  child  of  nature  soon  cast  a  spell 
over  my  fancy.  We  were  left  alone  fearlessly.  Her 
father  saw  but  a  child  in  her — she  was  barely  seventeen 
— and  she  was  engaged  to  wait  on  me. 

But  Annie,  at  first,  was  proof  to  flattery  ;  light-footed 
and  light-hearted,  she  turned  its  edge  unconsciously,  and 
I  made  no  way  with  her.  Always  merry  and  always 
happy,  full  of  kindliness  and  grace,  she  flitted  about  me, 
helpful  as  an  angel,  but  coy  and  unapproachable.  Not 
that  she  saw  danger — she  did  not  even  suspect  it ;  -it  was 
merely  the  instinctive  dread  holding  all  children  of 
nature  aloof  from  snares.  The  bird  on  the  sunny  bough 
will  look  at  you,  even  sing  to  you,  but  you  shall  not 
touch  it.  Brimming  with  life's  enjoyment  she  was  easily 
delighted,  and  sprightly  as  a  squirrel  in  the  wood.  She 
knew  affection,  but  what  we  call  love  had  at  that 
time  not  entered  her  consciousness.  Never  had  I  seen  a 
happier  mind,  a  fresher  and  more  charming  disposition  ; 
the  sky  of  her  soul  was  as  clear  as  the  blue  vault  above, 
her  singing  as  blithe  as  the  lark's  on  the  wing,  and  she 
cared  not  whether  the  sun  shone  or  not. 

But  in  my  selfish  soul  I  said,  "  Thou  coy  little  bird, 
see  if  I  don't  catch  thee  !  "  Not  that  I  loved  her — the 
difference  of  rank  was  too  great ;  but  I  was  for  plucking 
the  flower,  though  I  should  throw  ic  away  after  a 
while. 

And  I  did  succeed,  working  a  pitiful  change  in  the 
child ;  she  was  like  a  faded  blossom  or  a  bird  with 
broken  wing.  Her  singing  and  laughter  were  silenced, 
the  fearlessness  of  innocence  was  gone.  Sadly  and  si- 
lently she  moved  about,  scarcely  lifting  her  tearful  eye. 
But  from  that  moment  she  clung  to  me  with  tender  res- 
signation,  as  touching  as  it  was  true, — to  me  who  had 


32  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

ruined  her  in  idle  sport.  She  felt,  and  felt  rightly,  that 
henceforth  her  life  was  mine  ;  and  in  her  own  way  loved 
me,  wronged  as  she  was.  It  was  I  who  had  murdered 
her  soul. 

Even  then  repentance  with  poignant  sting  had  seized 
upon  my  heart — there  was  some  good  left  in  me  as  yet ; 
I  felt  deeply  touched,  moreover,  by  the  child's  entire 
love  and  humble  surrender.  Was  she  bewitching  before, 
she  was  not  less  so  now  ;  not  to  be  known  again,  but 
lovely  still  in  sorrow.  Free  and  fearless  she  had  been  in 
the  pride  of  her  beauty  ;  now  with  chaplet  deflowered 
and  robbed  of  her  glory,  ruefully  kissing  the  hand  which 
brought  her  so  low. 

I  began  to  love  her,  or  to  believe  I  loved  her,  and 
thought  of  a  possible  marriage. 

But  it  fell  out  differently.  My  mother  had  been 
informed,  and  set  herself  to  bring  me  to  reason.  How 
cleverly  she  did  it ! — not  rousing  opposition,  but  none  the 
less  effectively  showing  me  the  utter  foolishness  of  my 
intention.  There  was  not  a  shade  of  derision  in  her 
manner,  yet  I  felt  ridiculed.  She  never  called  it  a  silly 
freak,  but  she  brought  me  to  view  it  as  such.  Had  I 
really  loved  Annie,  no  doubt  my  mother  could  not  so 
easily  have  influenced  me.  As  it  was,  I  suddenly  seemed 
to  come  to  my  senses  ;  it  was  not  love — only  pity  for  the 
girl. 

My  mother  spoke  about  it  freely  ;  and  presently  she 
succeeded  in  directing  my  attention  elsewhere.  She  had 
adopted  an  orphan  child,  of  American  parentage,  dis- 
tantly related  to  her  own  family.  Lily  might  be  about 
nine  or  ten  years  old  now,  and  so  far  I  had  scarcely 
bestowed  any  notice  upon  her.  My  mother  would  hint 
now  and  then  at  the  rare  flower  of  beauty  slumbering  in 
the  buds  of  promise.  And  presently,  in  so  many  words, 
she  pointed  out  to  me  that  in  some  seven  or  eight  years 
Lily  might  not  only  have  ripened  to  matchless  charms, 
but  as  an  heiress  of  no  ordinary  kind  could  not  fail  to 
draw  the  eyes  of  men.  If,  then,  I  would  give  up  Annie, 
and  think  of  Lily  instead,  she  would  try  to  keep  her  for 
me.  When  Lily  should  have  reached  maturity,  it  would 
be  just  about  the  right  time  for  me  to  settle  in  life,  and 
I  might  hunt  the  world  over,  and  not  find  her  equal  any- 
where, That  was  true  enough,  and  imagination  had 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  33 

been  set  to  work.  Since  that  time  I  loved  to  think  of 
the  promising  little  Creole. 

Lily  was  undeniably  a  lovely  creature,  as  harmless  as  a 
dove,  but  with  me  anticipating  fancy  reveled  in  posses- 
sion. It  was  easy  for  my  mother  therefore  to  win  me  to 
her  plan.  There  was  something  indescribably  charming 
in  this  new  relationship.  To  look  upon  Lily  as  my  own 
property,  though  she  knew  it  not ;  to  watch  her  unfold- 
ing charm  upon  charm  in  sweetest  innocence  ;  to  call 
her  mine — mine  in  the  very  care  that  guarded  her  ;  to 
gather  up  treasure,  as  it  were,  for  my  own  delightful 
harvest,— call  it  unnatural  if  you  like,  but  to  a  nature 
like  mine  it  was  irresistibly  tempting. 

I  allowed  my  mother  full  liberty  to  bring  the  affair 
with  Annie  to  a  satisfactory  end,  as  she  termed  it,  hav- 
ing given  her  my  word  not  to  see  the  girl  again.  A  real 
sacrifice,  was  it  not  ?  Hell  shows  it  now  in  its  own  true 
light. 


LETTER    V. 

I  BEGIN  to  feel  at  home  here.  At  home  ?  How  full  of 
sweetest  echoes  is  this  word.  Its  very  sound  would  warm 
one's  heart  on  earth  ;  it  is  bitter  here — doubly  bitter  for 
memories  gone.  It  does  not  lessen  hell  to  get  used 
to  it;  we  are  even  forced  to  make  ourselves  at  home 
here,  just  as  we  are  obliged  to  be  what  once  we 
were. 

That  irresistible  impulse  to  be  continuously  doing  the 
works  of  our  earthly  life,  to  pursue  with  a  burning  greed 
a  vain  and  shadowy  existence,  may  well  be  termed  hell's 
daily  bread.  The  evil  desire  alone  is  real  :  the  sense 
that  might  lend  it  expression  is  dead.  You  have  heard 
of  Tantalus  and  Sisyphus — it  may  help  you  to  conceive 
our  state.  All  is  illusion  here,  the  very  fire  I  told  you 
of,  raging  in  imagination  merely — within  us  that  is — and 
yet  what  an  awful  reality  ! 

You  understand,  then,  that  I  have  resumed  old  habits, 
not  willingly,  but  under  compulsion,  following  the  old 
bent  with  a  helpless  disgust.  However,  I  cannot  but 
add  that  I  have  been  tolerably  fortunate,  falling  on  my 


34  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

feet  in  society,  as  it  were,  and  a  very  nice  set  I  have 
joiaed.  I  have  been  lucky  in  renewing  many  an  old  ac- 
quaintance, and  have  made  friends  with  people  whom 
one  would  have  been  glad  to  know  on  earth.  You 
would  be  indeed  surprised  if  I  were  indiscreet  enough  to 
mention  names  !  But  I  shall  content  myself  with  gener- 
alizing. It  is  strange  how  many  of  the  so-called  respect- 
able people  one  meets  here;  in  fact,  they  form  the  nucleus 
of  society  in  hell  as  they  do  on  earth.  I  might  even  say 
good  people,  meaning  those  worthy  folk  whose  one 
desire  it  is  to  go  through  life  comfortably,  quite  willing  no 
one  else  should  hunger,  provided  they  themselves  have 
all  they  need  ;  satisfied  with  their  lot  in  the  world,  not 
perhaps  a  grand  one,  and  caring  for  nothing  beyond  it — 
never  dreaming  that  the  less  fortunate  might  be  their 
brothers  and  sisters  after  all.  Just  look  about  you 
wherever  you  please — the  world  is  full  of  such.  They 
are  good  to  themselves  and  good  to  their  children,  thank- 
ing God  for  the  means  of  being  so.  They  spend  their 
years  as  if  this  life's  business  were  all  that  needs  to  be 
thought  of,  living  for  their  families,  their  home  concerns, 
whether  in  drudgery  or  in  ease,  both  men  and  women. 
You  little  think  that  daily  life,  with  its  legitimate  cares, 
— ay,  even  what  you  call  your  duty  by  house  and  home, 
— may  be  the  snare  to  bring  your  soul  to  hell !  There 
are  men  who  rush  through  life  in  the  whirl  of  amuse- 
ment ;  others  sleep  through  it;  others  again  wear  them- 
selves out  for  its  paltry  amenities,  calling  that  to  live  for- 
sooth !  And  before  they  are  aware  of  it,  their  race  is 
run  they  close  their  eyes  to  open  them  again,  surprised 
perhaps,  in  the  pangs  of  hell. 

Oh  could  I  live  over  again  but  a  single  year  of  my 
earthly  span — I  do  not  mean  for  my  own  sake  merely  ! — 
I  might  perhaps  be  able  to  warn  some  few  of  those  ex- 
cellent men  whose  ideas  of  life  are  wrapped  up  in  the 
counting-house  on  the  one  hand,  and  in  the  prosperity 
of  their  family  on  the  other — of  those  devoted  wives  and 
mothers  who  spend  themselves  for  the  comforts  of  home. 
I  say  some  few  of  them,  well  knowing  that  not  many 
would  believe  me. 

Nay,  even  as  regards  so-called  philanthropists  I  have 
made  the  unexpected  discovery  that  some  of  them — I 
say  some — who  have  really  one  way  or  another  benefited 


LETTERS   FROM    HELU  35 

thousands,  have  lived  to  their  own  ruin.  Has  the  world 
been  loud  in  their  praises  ? — learn  wisdom,  my  friend, 
and  overrate  not  the  world's  approval. 

It  is,  indeed,  a  strange  fancy,  prevalent  among  men, 
that  only  the  wicked  go  to  hell.  You  poor  deluded  ones, 
listen  to  my  words  :  it  is  incredible,  I  assure  you,  how 
little  is  needed  to  take  a  man  to  hell — that  is  to  say,  if  he 
dies  without  having  found  his  Saviour.  For  without  him 
the  soul  is  unable  to  bear  the  smallest  weight  of  wrong  ; 
while  with  Him — yes,  with  Him — she  will  wing  herself  to 
heaven  in  the  face  of  mountains  of  sin.  Do  you  know 
that  Saviour  ?  I  ask  you  as  one  who  can  never  know 
Him  know  ! 

There  are  many  here,  I  assure  you,  who  have  never 
committed  any  particular  crime.  The  world,  with  its 
notions  of  right  and  wrong,  would  cry  out  for  justice  if  it 
were  but  known  !  And  why  are  they  here  ?  They 
never  felt  the  sting  of  conscience,  leading  respectable 
lives,  laying  the  unction  of  goodness  to  their  souls, — but 
they  died  and  went  to  hell.  No  demon  of  evil  ruled 
their  lives,  and  yet  they  are  here — oh  heaven,  where  is 
tiy  justice  ? — in  a  like  damnation  with  ourselves  !  The 
-  orment  of  hell  for  such  people  consists  in  having  noth- 
ng  to  do  here,  no  counting-house  to  attend,  no  families 
to  provide  for.  Not  ruled  by  passion,  they  are  slaves  to 
^ife's  habit,  and  the  latter  may  be  as  terrible  a  taskmaster 
as  the  former. 

Thus  much  is  certain,  if  having  nothing  to  live  for 
could  kill  people,  and  if  one  could  die  in  hell,  many  here 
would  die  of  sheer  hankering  after  their  earthly  drudgery. 

My  own  existence,  once  I  was  properly  introduced, 
was  speedily  rilled  witn  amusement.  Are  you  surprised 
that  I  should  say  "  introduced  "  ?  But  we  are  no  Goths 
here,  and  society  with  us  also  attends  to  its  rules.  If  it 
needs  little  to  bring  one  to  hell,  it  is  not  so  easy  to  make 
one's  way  into  the  fashionable  circles  of  this  place  of 
woe.  It  is  with  us  just  as  with  you,  with  this  difference 
only :  the  world  asks  who  a  man  is,  the  question  here 
being  who  he  was. 

Now  I,  in  the  world,  was  allowed  to  be  handsome  and 
refined,  a  man  who  could  pride  himself  on  his  gentle- 
manly qualities,  not  to  mention  a  considerable  fortune. 
Here  I  no  longer  am  this  man,  but  I  affect  his  semblance 


36  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

Yet  I  must  warn  you  against  imagining  that  there  is  any 
pretence  ;  no,  it  is  nature,  downright  nature. 

At  first  I  was  positively  overwhelmed  with  calls  and 
invitations.  Here  also  novelty  is  much  sought  after.  If 
I  had  brought  nothing  with  me  but  the  news  of  some 
foolish  fashion  lately  adopted  in  the  world,  I  should  have 
been  considered  an  acquisition.  But,  without  flattering 
myself,  I  may  say  I  brought  more — a  fashionable  finish 
of  the  most  faultless  description  having  ever  been  the 
very  essence  of  my  aims.  Shall  I  tell  you  of  a  merry 
club-dinner  to  which  I  was  asked  lately  ?  The  party  as- 
sembled was  of  doubtful  reputation — high  living,  drink, 
and  gluttony  seemed  their  watchword  ;  nor  was  it  com- 
plimentary to  my  antecedents  to  be  invited,  for  with  me 
the  beautiful  maxim,  "moderation  in  all  things,"  had 
ever  covered  a  multitude  of  sins,  and  I  had  always  been 
careful  to  avoid  vulgarity.  However,  there  I  was  ;  the 
fare  was  exquisite,  the  wine  splendid.  A  jovial  company 
they  appeared,  to  judge  from  the  loose  jokes  and  ribald 
anecdotes  passing  between  the  pleasures  of  the  table. 
And  what  shall  I  say  of  the  temptations  born  of  surfeit, 
coursing  through  the  heated  veins  ?  Ah,  they  were  not 
wanting,  but  satisfaction  was  an  illusion.  I  refrain — 
there  was  nothing  real  in  all  that  banquet  save  its  incite- 
ment to  sin  ;  we  preyed  on  our  miserable  selves,  eating 
and  drinking  leaving  a  nauseating  feelirg  of  emptiness, 
the  very  jokes  being  unbearably  stale.  Men  of  all  kinds 
are  found  here,  but  vainly  you  look  for  one  capable  of 
producing  anything  to  refresh  the  mind  by  genuine 
mirth  or  novelty.  However,  eat  and  drink  we  must,  and 
laugh  and  joke  we  must ;  we  were  obliged,  I  mean, 
whether  we  liked  it  or  not.  Now  you  understand  per- 
haps, though  faintly,  what  it  means  to  join  in  festivity  in 
hell. 

At  that  club-dinner,  where  nothing  was  wanting  that 
gluttony  could  dream  of,  the  thought  of  some  poor  man 
on  earth  eating  his  crust  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow  again 
and  again  presented  itself  to  my  mind.  The  dry  bread 
that  satisfies  his  hunger,  the  beer  or  tea  that  quenches 
his  thirst,  what  a  royal  feast  is  his  as  compared  with  our- 
selves. For  he  does  eat,  and  is  satisfied,  but  we — oh 
vainest  deception  ! 

Was  it  not  that  excellent  hero,  Achilles,  who  in  Hades 


LETTERS    FR6?vT  JU  37 

exclaimed  mournfully,  he  would  rather  be  the  most 
miserable  man  on  earth  than  king  of  the  realm  below  ? 
This  is  but  wisdom  of  the  Greeks,  but  how  true  ! — how 
true !  I  too  would  far  rather  spend  my  days  upon  earth 
amid  the  most  overwhelming  difficulties,  battling  with 
care,  want,  or  suffering,  than  occupy  any  favored  posi- 
tion here,  be  it  of  king  or  epicure.  Of  all  the  fools  of 
the  world's  training  he,  surely,  is  greatest  who  takes 
away  his  own  life,  thinking  that  he  could  never  be  worse 
off  than  he  is.  In  sooth,  whatever  a  man's  earthly  lot 
may  be,  be  sure  it  may  be  a  paradise  to  what  he  goes  to 
meet.  He  may  find  himself  yearning  for  the  misery  he 
quitted  ;  indeed,  if  you  could  give  him  back  that  misery 
tenfold,  he  would  seize  it  eagerly  and  bless  you  for  the 
gift. 

Still  the  number  ot  actual  suicides,  comparatively 
speaking,  is  small  ;  a  far  larger  class  of  men  content 
themselves  with  shortening  their  days  by  continuous 
grumblings  and  a  dismal  unsatisfied  frame  of  mind.  If 
shortening  their  days  were  but  all,  and  if  thereby  they 
did  at  least  better  themselves  for  the  time  being  !  But 
the  fact  is,  they  all  but  kill  life  with  discontent.  They 
are  dissatisfied  with  themselves,  with  their  fellows,  with 
all  the  world,  with  the  very  air  which  they  breathe  and 
the  day  which  is  given  them.  Poor  fools,  the  day  is 
short  and  night  is  at  hand?  And  why  are  they  dis- 
satisfied ?  Because  health  is  not  all  it  should  be,  or  the 
world  at  times  crosses  them  ;  because  their  position  in 
life  but  imperfectly  suits  their  nature  and  liking,  and 
they  would  desire  a  better  lot ;  because  perhaps  their 
battle  is  harder  than  other  people's,  or,  at  worst,  their 
whole  life  a  failure  falling  short  of  dearest  hope  ? 

I  do  not  mean  to  underrate  these  things — on  the 
contrary,  I  do  own  that  life  to  most  men  is  fraught  with 
sorrow ;  but  I  say  this  :  Could  you  but  view  matters 
from  the  vantage-ground  of  hell,  you  who  lessen  life  by 
discontent,  you  would  gain  that  much  of  wisdom,  that 
our  days  on  earth,  whatever  of  trouble,  of  care  and  vexa- 
tion, be  bound  up  with  them,  are  yet  capable  of  yielding 
very  real  happiness.  So  much  depends  on  how  we  take 
things.  If,  instead  of  fixing  upon  trouble  as  something 
foreign  to  yourselves  or  hostile  to  your  being,  looking 
upon  yourselves  as  miserable  in  consequence,  you  could 


38  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

but  open  your  soul  to  that  trouble  and,  rising  from  inert- 
ness, accept  it  as  a  very  part  of  your  existence,  how  dif- 
ferent things  would  appear  !  Many  a  trouble,  moreover, 
is  but  imaginary,  and  if  dealt  with  sensibly  would  dwindle 
away  ;  while  many  a  real  trouble,  on  the  other  hand,  by 
your  striving  to  take  it  aright,  might  become  an  impulse 
of  new  endeavor,  changing  the  very  face  of  your  life 
and  leading  you  to  a  better  happiness  than  before  you 
i! lined  at.  Ah,  indeed,  if  you  could  but  view  matters 
from  hell  you  would  come  to  see  that  man  is  able  to  bear 
a  load  of  trouble,  and  that,  confronting  want  and  misery, 
he  may  yet  attain  a  state  of  happiness  worth  the  having  ! 
You  would  find  that  every  day  of  that  life  which  now 
you  make  a  burden  to  yourselves  and  to  others  is  precious 
beyond  words,  a  gracious  gift  of  God  for  which  you  can- 
not be  grateful  enough.  You  would  understand  that  I, 
hungering  and  longing,  would  wish  to  be  in  your  place 
— ay,  and  count  myself  blessed  to  bear  the  burden  which 
you  consider  so  grievous.  But  what  boots  it  that  /  see 
it  all  so  plainly  now  ;  it  is  too  late  for  me, — too  late. 

That  fashionable  people  in  hell  have  their  so-called 
grand  evening  parties  will  hardly  surprise  you  ;  we  have 
dances,  "at  homes,"  and  all  those  things  set  store  by  in 
the  world.  But  if  this  sort  of  stylish  living  even  on 
earth  is  unutterably  hollow,  what  must  it  be  here  where 
the  very  air  we  breathe  is  vanity  and  nothingness  ? 
Looking  back  I  can  scarcely  credit  now  how  I  could 
wrong  my  better  self  for  the  sake  of  that  vile  habit  of 
attending  parties.  What  is  a  party  in  the  very  society 
which  calls  itself  polite  ?  Is  it  not  as  if  some  vicious 
goblin  had  a  hand  in  it,  bringing  together  twenty,  fifty, 
even  a  hundred  people,  each  of  whom  has  his  own  cosy 
fireside — men  and  women  who  for  the  most  part  have 
little  or  nothing  in  common,  but  needs  must  meet  beneath 
staring  chandeiiers,  the  spirit  of  falsehood  among  them? 
Vanity  rules,  and  when  the  goblin  has  thoroughly  fooled 
them  and  lights  turn  pale,  they  each  go  home  fagged 
and  tattered.  Host  and  hostess  say,  "What  a  mercy 
it's  over  ! "  Each  visitor  says,  "  I  am  thankful  to  go  to 
bed  " — are  you,  poor  fools  of  fashion  ? 

But  if  it  seems  a  marvel  now  how  I  also,  in  days  gone 
by,  could  sacrifice  myself  to  the  so-called  claims  of  society, 
I  need  not  marvel  that  I  do  so  here.  It  was  by  choice 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  39 

then, — it  is  under  compulsion  now  ;  it  is  as  if  ten  thou- 
sand goblins  fooled  us — we  know  it  but  cannot  with- 
stand. 

The  object  of  parties  with  us  is  just  the  same  as  with 
you:  to  be  seen,  to  be  admired,  to  make  oneself  agreeable 
— not  so  much  in  order  to  please  your  neighbor  as  to  be 
thought  pleasant  yourself — and  to  hide  it  amiably  if  you 
think  people  a  bore.  There  is  one  marked  difference, 
however,  placing  us  often  in  a  position  both  painful  and 
ridiculous.  What  should  you  say  if  at  any  of  your  great 
social  gatherings  you  could  look  through  people's 
clothes — those  fine  clothes  put  on  so  carefully — through 
them,  I  say,  to  the  very  piece  of  humanity  they  hide, 
and  not  only  through  them,  but,  deeper  still,  to  the  core 
of  the  heart  beneath  ?  It  is  so  here  !  Supposing,  then, 
you  walk  up  to  some  old  crone,  saying,  with  your  most 
engaging  smile — "  Delighted  to  see  you  !  "  thinking  to 
yourself  at  the  same  time — "  I  wish  she  were  at  Jericho  !  " 
— I  leave  you  to  imagine  the  figure  you  cut.  I  give  this 
as  an  example  only — as  a  clue,  rather  ;  think  it  out 
further  and  see  where  it  leaves  you  !  But  even  to  this 
one  gets  used  in  hell,  fortifying  oneself  with  a  kind  of 
frivolous  impudence,  without  which  intercourse  would 
be  simply  unbearable.  The  incident  I  quoted  of  course 
leaves  the  advantage  with  the  old  crone  ;  but  the 
moment  she  opens  her  lips  her  interlocutor  has  the  best 
of  it,  for  he  can  see  through  her  clothes  as  she  saw 
through  his.  They  are  quits  then, 

However,  as  I  said,  it  is  not  merely  ludicrous  but 
painful — offering,  moreover,  an  unsurmountable  obstacle 
to  all  courtship.  It  is  utterly  impossible  here  to  fool  a 
woman,  be  she  ever  so  frail.  All  the  fine  words  of  hell 
cannot  delude  her,  for  she  sees  through  them.  From 
this  point  of  view  we  form  a  most  virtuous  company. 
Indeed,  flattery  and  compliments  with  us  are  exceedingly 
difficult  to  pass,  the  heart  betraying  the  man  in  quite 
another  sense  than  with  you. 

You  can  hardly  picture  to  yourself  how  much  of  the 
truly  surprising,  if  not  interesting,  may  be  experienced 
here  in  a  single  day.  The  world,  as  seen  from  hell,  is 
the  land  of  dreams  and  imaginings,  appearing  beautiful 
and  pleasant  none  the  less.  And,  absurdly  paradoxical 
as  it  may  sound,  here  only,  where  all  reality  has  vanished, 


40  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

reality  in  uncompromising  nakedness  is  upon  us.  Are 
they  friends  or  foes  that  meet,  they  soon  speak  the  truth 
to  one  another.  Such  mutual  confessions,  on  the  whole, 
are  little  edifying,  and,  since  there  are  no  secrets  here, 
at  once  flit  from  circle  to  circle  for  general  merriment. 
Do  you  care  to  have  examples?  Here  are  some  recent 
tit-bits. 

A.  had  been  killed  in  a  duel  which  he  fought  to  avenge 
an  insult  offered  to  his  handsome  young  wife.  Quite 
recently  he  somewhat  unexpectedly  met  his  late  oppo- 
nent, who,  having  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh,  had  come  to 
hell.  Wrathfully  he  taxed  him  with  former  wrong,  but 
the  latter  made  answer  quite  coolly  : 

"  Silly  man,  do  you  mean  to  fight  me  again  for  nothing 
whatever  ?  Let  bygones  be  bygones  ;  we  had  better  be 
friends." 

"  For  nothing  whatever  !  "  reiterated  A.,  hotly.  "  Do 
you  call  it  nothing  that  you  insulted  my  wife,  and  killed 
me,  moreover,  when  I  tried  to  vindicate  her  ? " 

"  I  suppose  I  must  tell  you  the  plain  fact,"  replied  his 
opponent.  "  I  see  you  still  labor  under  a  delusion.  The 
matter  was  simply  this  :  I  had  been  the  lover  of  your 
wife,  but  broke  with  her.  That  was  the  insult.  That  is 
why  she  got  you  to  challenge  me.  However,  these  are 
bygones  ;  we'll  be  friends  now." 

Whether  they  were  friends  after  that  I  cannot 
tell.  I  rather  think  that  A.  felt  ready  to  hide  him- 
self. 

Two  friends — in  fact  they  were  cousins — sat  together 
in  pleasant  intercourse.  Said  the  one  : 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  born  to  be  a  poet.  I  did 
write  novels,  and  my  first  publications  made  quite  a 
sensation." 

"  Don't  I  know  that,"  says  the  cousin,  "  since  it  was  I 
who  wrote  half  the  reviews  about  them  ?  It  was  I,  sweet 
coz,  who  brought  you  into  fashion.  That  is  easily 
managed,  if  one  has  a  few  connections  and  sufficient 
wit  to  let  the  review  be  racy ;  people  are  easily 
caught." 

"  What — you  ?  Surely  you  are  but  joking  !  Why,  I 
owe  you  everlasting  thanks."  , 

"  Thanks — no,"  replied  the  cousin,  "  Did  we  not  love 
one  another  as  very  brothers  ? " 


LETTERS    FROM     HKLL.  4! 

The  would-be  poet  grew  thoughtful,  continuing  after 
a  while  : 

"  But  it  was  short-lived  fame.  I  had  jumped  into 
fashion  with  one  leap,  as  it  were,  and  a  great  future 
seemed  to  await  me,  when,  as  by  magic,  there  was  a 
change  which  I  never  understood.  Reviews  from  pane- 
gyrics turned  to  spite,  cutting  me  up  so  mercilessly  that 
no  publisher  presently  had  courage  to  launch  my  works, 
and  I  was  constrained  to  turn  my  back  upon  the  literary 
career." 

"  Well,  I  can  solve  that  mystery  also.  It  was  I  who  cut 
you  up  so  mercilessly  as  you  say,  not  leaving  you  the 
faintest  pretence  to  talent.  I  had  set  myself  to  persecute 
you  into  silence  ;  as  soon  as  you  opened  your  mouth, 
down  came  the  lash.  What  could  you  do  but  turn  your 
back  upon  literature  ?  " 

"You — you  did  that?" 

"  To  be  sure,  but  don't  excite  yourself  :  it  was  to 
your  own  advantage.  Your  mother,  to  whom  I  never 
could  say  nay,  had  implored  me  to  leave  no  stone  un- 
turned in  trying  to  save  you  from  what  she  considered 
your  utter  ruin.  You  had  no  talent  for  poetry,  she  said, 
but  a  very  marked  calling  for  the  blacking  manufactory, 
on  which  your  family  had  thriven  conspicuously.  Now 
/  knew — of  course  I  did — that  your  literary  fame  was  all 
humbug  ;  and  humbug  could  not  really  hold  you  in  the 
saddle,  I  saw  that.  A  reviewer  could  fill  your  balloon, 
but  he  could  not  keep  it  sailing,  and  with  every  line  you 
wrote  the  gas  escaped  wofully  ;  you  were  as  near  a  col- 
lapse as  possible.  So  I  generously  resolved  to  antici- 
pate it,  and  by  main  force  bring  you  from  poetry  to 
blacking.  I  discharged  broadsides  of  wit  and  volleys  of 
sarcasm  whenever  you  dared  to  show  yourself  in  print, 
success  crowning  my  efforts  ;  for  you  died  rich  with  the 
spoils  of  blacking — a  man  of  worth,  too,  in  the  eyes  of 
respectable  citizens." 

"  And  went  to  hell  !  "  cried  the  blacking  and  poesy- 
monger.  "  Should  I  find  myself  here  if  my  Pegasus  had 
not  been  hamstrung  so  vilely  ?  " 

"  That  is  more  than  I  know,"  returned  the  reviewing 
cousin  mildly.  "  But  I  scarcely  think  that  literature  by 
itself  would  have  carried  you  to  Paradise,  any  more  than 
I  believe  that  blacking  alone  had  power  to  drag  you  to 


42  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

hell.  But  these  are  bygones.  I  loved  you  dearly,  and 
was  your  best  friend,  after  all." 

The  poetical  blacking-dealer  turned  away  dis- 
gusted. The  information  was  more  than  he  could 
stand. 

A  couple  of  monks  were  holding  low  but  earnest  con- 
verse. 

"But  tell  me,  brother,"  said  the  one,  "  how  you  came 
to  take  the  cowl  ?  " 

"  Through  my  own  stupidity  ;  it  was  nothing  else. 
I  fell  in  love  with  Lisella  Neri  ;  you  knew  her,  I  think. 
She  was  considered  a  beauty,  and  she  was  an  heiress. 
However,  I  was  refused,  and,  sick  of  life,  I  entered  the 
monastery, — a  piece  of  folly  I  rued  every  day  till  I  died. 
A  simple  story,  is  it  not  ?  But  what  brought  you  to  the 
cloister  ?  " 

"The  very  opposite,  strange  to  say.  I  also  loved 
Lisella,  and  presently  was  her  accepted  suitor,  but  it 
ended  in  my  being  the  most  miserable  husband  under 
the  sun.  Lisella  was  both  capricious  and  bad  ;  and  she 
did  not  care  for  me.  I  never  knew  a  moment's  peace. 
There  seemed  but  one  way  out  of  misery  :  leaving  her 
mistress  of  her  fortune,  I  fled  to  the  monastery,  and  truly 
I  never  repented  of  it.  If  ever  a  moment's  discontent 
assailed  me  I  had  but  to  think  of  Lisella  and  happi- 
ness was  restored." 

The  first  monk  sat  buried  in  silence.  Presently  he 
said  :  4  Our  experience  shows  that  no  one  can  escape 
his  destmy^  From  what  you  tell  me  I  gather  that 
Lisella,  one-way  or  another,  must  have  brought  me  to 
the  cowl.  Still  you,  brother,  were  the  most  fortunate 
after  all ;  not  because  for  a  time  you  owned  that  hand- 
some troubler  of  peace,  but  because,  knowing  her  as 
I  did  not,  your  disappointment  ended  in  content." 

But  enough  of  this.  What  is  the  use  of  telling  these 
things  ? 

Martin,  poor  Martin,  what  may  have  become  of  you  ? 
He  was  wronged  after  all.  Badly  brought  up,  badly 
used,  he  was  my  work. 

She  was  very  beautiful  that  young  girl,  about  his  own 
age.  She  was  cleaning  the  house-steps  one  day  when  I 
first  saw  her.  But  lowly  as  her  occupation  was,  she 


LETTERS     FROM"fi~ELL.  43 

charmed  the  eye.  The  demon  was  moved.  It  was  easy 
for  me  to  offer  to  educate  her.  She  appeared  not  born 
to  her  humble  sphere.  I  placed  her  with  a  family  I  knew. 
Simple  as  she  was,  she  appeared  to  understand  I  had 
some  object.  But  the  flower  should  unfold  before  I 
plucked  it.  I  had  learned  to  wait. 

By  what  chance  he  and  she  met  I  know  not,  but  their 
first  meeting  seems  to  have  been  sufficient.  As  in  a 
flash  of  lightning  love  struck  their  hearts  simultaneously, 
and  quickly  they  knew  that  they  were  each  other's. 

Martin  came  to  me  with  an  open  confession.  But  not 
only  did  I  refuse  consent, — I  cruelly  taunted  him, 
defrauded  as  I  felt.  He  quitted  me  in  anger  to  seek  his 
own  way.  As  self-willed  as  myself,  he  hesitated  not  a 
moment  as  to  his  line  of  action,  carrying  off  the  girl 
before  my  very  eyes  so  to  speak. 

She  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  But  he  did  not  hide, 
facing  me  boldly.  It  was  then  that  I  thrust  him  from 
rny  house  ;  from  my  heart  also  I  believed — but  in  this 
I  was  mistaken. 

What  could  he  have  been  wanting  to  tell  me  that 
would  heal  every  breach  between  us,  as  he  said  in  that 
letter  ?  Did  it  concern  him  or  her  ?  A  Higher  Power 
has  spoken,  he  said.  I  am  left  to  maddening  doubt. 

Doubt  ? — nay,  it  is  a  burning  question,  consuming  my 
soul  with  the  fire  of  hell — sufficient  almost  to  draw  me 
back  to  earth  as  a  wandering  ghost.  But  should  I  find 
an  answer  to  the  question — and  where  ? 


LETTER    VI. 

LET  me  speak  to  you  of  Lily.  But  I  fear  memory 
will  scarcely  separate  the  child  Lily  from  the  woman 
into  which  she  blossomed.  Remember  that  I  see  her 
with  the  knowledge  of  a  later  period.  I  neither  saw  nor 
knew  her  aright,  there  being  nothing  so  blind  as  the 
carnal  gaze. 

She  was  a  Creole.  Delicate  and  lovely  were  her 
features,  though  not  perhaps  molded  after  any  received 
type  of  beauty  ;  her  hair  black  and  glossy  ;  her  eyes  like 
stars,  of  so  deep  a  blue  that  the  cursory  beholder  believed 


44  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

them  black,  and  veiled  with  lashes  behind  which  her  soul 
at  times  would  appear  to  withdraw  from  your  gaze  as  a 
pure  nymph  descending  into  her  own  limpid  depth.  Her 
figure  was  slight  and  airy,  perfectly  harmonious,  not 
wanting  in  fullness,  but  tenderly  shaped  ;  not  tall,  with 
hands  and  feet  of  the  smallest,  and  rarely  beautiful. 
Such  was  Lily  But  those  eyes  of  hers  were  her  greatest 
charm.  Who  does  not  know  the  soft  enchantment  of 
Creole  eyes  ?  Lily's  even  now  have  a  power  that  pene- 
trates my  soul.  Never  in  all  eternity  shall  I  forget  that 
tender  brightness  sparkling  with  tearful  laughter,  that 
gaze  half  sad  and  yet  so  full  of  promise,  that  at  anytime 
it  bound  my  heart. 

The  southern  temperament  is  generally  accredited 
with  caprice  and  passionate  self-will.  But  nothing  was 
more  unlike  Lily  than  this.  No  doubt  there  was  warmth 
in  her  nature,  but  its  glow  was  gentle  and  deep,  never 
kindling  to  passion,  but  always  yielding  its  own  bene- 
ficent radiance.  Capriciousness  was  utterly  foreign  to 
her,  but  she  knew  her  own  mind  concerning  anything 
she  considered  to  be  right — anything  her  conscience  had 
recognized  as  due  to  truth  or  charity.  In  such  things 
her  will  was  unbendable,  though  in  aught  else  she  was 
submissiveness  itself.  Self-love  she  knew  not,  her  soul's 
deepest  need  being  surrender.  Poor  child,  you  could 
not  have  been  placed  more  terribly,  all  but  given  over  to 
one  who  was  an  egotist  to  the  core  of  his  being. 

She  was  all  heart.  Later  on  some  physician  discovered 
what  he  called  an  organic  defect — Lily's  heart  was  too 
large,  he  said.  Nothing  more  likely  than  this  !  I  never 
knew  a  disposition  so  prone  to  feeling,  so  easily  touched 
as  hers.  She  was  brimming  with  affection,  love  being 
the  only  reward  she  claimed.  As  a  child,  a  loving  word 
— a  look  even — could  so  move  her  that  she  would  fling 
herself  on  your  neck  whispering  her  gratitude  as  she 
nestled  in  your  embrace.  Her  sympathy  at  all  times 
was  easily  roused.  The  trials  and  strivings  of  others — 
their  joys  and  sorrows,  their  happiness  or  misfortune — 
\vere  all  that  interested  her  most.  She  seemed  to  move 
in  iove  and  pity. 

At  times  I  could  not  but  tell  myself  how  ill-fitted  she 
was  for  a  self-seeking  world.  Her  tender  nature  was 
often  hurt  in  intercourse  with  others,  and,  feeli'ng 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  45 

repulsed,  she  would  shrink  back  within  herself.  That  is 
why  after  all  she  was  a  lonely  child,  satisfied  to  com- 
mune with  herself  and  with  me — wretch  as  I  was. 

Added  to  this,  hers  was  a  wonderful  simplicity  of 
nature — simplicity  of  spirit  I  ought  to  say.  I  doubt  not 
that,  had  she  lived  to  extreme  old  age,  she  would  never 
have  departed  from  the  heart  of  a  child.  Nothing  was 
more  easy  than  to  talk  her  over  to  anything,  provided 
only  it  did  not  clash  with  her  sense  of  right.  She  never 
dreamt  that  anybody  could  be  deceiving  her.  Once  or 
twice  I  frivolously  put  her  simple-mindedness  to  the  test, 
but  felt  so  humbled  by  her  utter  trust  that  I  never  did  it 
again.  Incarnate  shamelessness  would  have  bowed  to 
her  holy  innocence.  She  was  one  of  those  beautiful 
beings  one  meets  with  but  rarely  in  life,  who,  walking 
on  earth,  keep  their  skirts  pure,  no  matter  what  defile- 
ment be  about  them.  I  verily  believe  you  might  have 
dragged  her  through  slums  of  sin  and  vice,  and  she 
would  have  come  forth  with  innocence  unharmed.  Her 
soul  somehow  was  above  offence,  she  never  thought  that 
anybody  could  be  wanting  to  do  wrong.  Her  eyes 
never  opened  to  the  appalling  fact  that  it  is  a  wicked 
world  in  which  men  live.  She  knew  what  sin  was,  her 
pious  mind  having  its  own  childlike  ideas  concerning  it ; 
but  she  never  knew  vice  as,  with  fleeting  footstep,  she 
followed  her  transient  course  of  life. 

I  should  wrong  myself  if  I  said  that  I  never  saw  this 
till  now.  I  felt  it  even  then,  corrupt  as  I  was.  How 
little  there  was  in  common  between  us — she  all  spirit,  I 
all  flesh.  Again  I  say,  poor  little  Lily  ! 

She  did  not  acquire  much  knowledge  in  life,  her  learn- 
ing being  restricted  to  the  fewest  of  objects.  That  his- 
tory was  her  favorite  pursuit  would  seem  natural,  since 
history  treats  of  men,  of  their  deeds  and  conflicts,  their 
happiness  and  grief,  moving  her  heart  to  sympathy  ;  and 
she  cared  for  a  book  only  inasmuch  as  it  spoke  of  her 
fellows,  otherwise  she  saw  but  dead  letters  which  wearied 
her.  In  mechanical  attainments,  therefore,  she  was  ever 
backward  ;  it  was  next  to  impossible  to  teach  her  the  use 
of  a  foreign  tongue.  Living  a  life  of  feeling,  she  could 
not  but  become  contemplative  and  somewhat  dreamy, 
reason  inclining  to  sit  apart  in  her.  We  seriously 
endeavored  to  shake  her  up,  as  the  phrase  goes,  but  it  is 


46  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

a  thankless  task  to  attempt  anything  against  nature. 
Wanting  in  communicativeness  she  was  by  no  means, — 
to  me  at  least  she  was  ready  to  confide  her  every 
thought. 

The  stories  of  the  Bible  had  ever  been  those  she  \oved 
above  all  others.  They  had  been  the  first  food  of  her 
waking  soul,  and  never  anything  impressed  her  more 
deeply  than  the  death  on  the  Cross  of  the  Son  of  God, 
who  loved  sinful  men  and  gave  His  life  for  them.  That 
love  and  that  suffering  formed  her  earliest  impressions, 
and  the  most  lasting.  Again  and  again  she  would  read 
the  holy  record,  and  surely  an  angel  has  counted  the 
tears  she  shed  while  so  engaged.  Unlike  in  aught  else 
as  she  was  to  Mary  Magdalene,  she  was  like  her  in  burn- 
ing love  for  her  crucified  Lord. 

Later  on  the  history  of  the  Crusades  moved  her.  The 
Crucified  One  was  her  first  love,  and  stories  of  the 
crusaders  first  stirred  her  enthusiasm,  the  idea  seizing  on 
her  so  powerfully  that  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  seemed 
to  add  years  to  her  growth.  The  enthusiasm  cooled, 
but  the  thought  remained,  and  thenceforth  the  Holy 
Land,  where  the  Son  of  God  had  lived  and  died,  was  the 
object  of  her  dearest  longing.  She  would  at  first  lend 
expression  to  her  feelings,  but  she  suffered  for  it.  Her 
little  girl-friends  nicknamed  her  the  Lady  Crusader.  And 
even  if  they  held  their  peace  they  could  not  refrain  from 
teasing  her  by  signs,  holding  up  their  fingers  crosswise 
on  meeting  her  ;  she,  poor  little  thing,  of  course  under- 
stood their  amiable  meaning.  The  Saviour's  Cross  thus 
early  had  become  her  cross.  The  mockery  hurt  her 
deeply,  and  she  was  not  again  heard  to  speak  of  the  Holy 
Land.  But  where  the  lips  must  be  silent,  the  heart  per- 
haps clings  to  its  longing  all  the  more  ardently. 

Would  it  not  seem  that  she  was  little  fitted  for  this 
world  ? — not  for  my  world,  at  any  rate.  Had  I  not  been 
such  a  hopelessly  miserable  fellow,  I  must  have  known 
it,  her  very  look  must  have  told  me — beautiful  and  pure 
as  an  angel !  Beauty  and  its  enjoyment  had  ever 
appeared  to  me  as  the  very  prizes  of  life  ;  but  never  have 
I  known  anything  more  simply  beautiful  than  the  entire 
devotion  of  this  child-soul  in  purity  and  truth,  and 
unspotted  by  self-love. 

Some  years    passed   away   when    my   mother    again 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  47 

thought  fit  to  interfere.  "  That  won't  do,"  she  said  ; 
"  you  anticipate  future  happiness,  and  thereby  will  lose 
it.  You  must  separate.  You  had  better  travel  for  a 
couple  of  years.  I  will  watch  over  Lily  meanwhile,  and 
do  what  I  can  towards  bringing  her  up  for  your  delight. 
Yes,  leave  us,  my  son  ;  the  time  will  come  when  you  will 
see  the  wisdom  of  my  counsel." 

I  could  not  but  own  that  my  mother  was  right,  and 
declared  myself  ready  to  make  the  effort  in  the  interest 
of  future  happiness,  or,  more  correctly,  of  promised 
enjoyment.  It  had  become  desirable,  just  about  that 
time,  that  one  of  the  partners  of  the  firm  should  go  to 
South  America  ;  it  would  be  a  lengthened  absence.  My 
old  uncle  could  not  undertake  it  ;  my  cousin,  junior 
partner  like  myself,  did  not  care  for  the  journey  ;  I, 
therefore,  yielding  to  my  mother's  private  representations, 
offered  to  go.  Lily  dissolved  in  tears  on  taking  leave  ; 
my  mother's  severest  influence  scarcely  could  bring  her 
to  reason.  I  ttxy  was  moved,  but  took  comfort  in 
selfish  thought.  ^Wait,  little  woman  ;  we  shall  meet 
again,  and  future  delight  will  be  greater  that  present 
loss^J 

I  stayed  away  longer  even  than  was  expected.  I  often 
had  news  from  home — letters,  too,  from  Lily — wonderful 
letters  !  An  angel  might  have  written  them,  those  deli- 
cately tender  productions  ;  and  nothing  could  be  more 
foreign  to  my  own  nature  than  the  lovely  thoughts 
expressed  in  those — shall  I  say — ethereal  letters  ?  But 
they  did  not  sink  into  my  heart  :  they  only  touched  my 
senses.  .  Surely  it  was  an  evil  delight  which  said  :  "  This 
tender  blossom,  so  pure  and  innocent,  is  yours  ;  you  will 
teach  her  one  day  that  she  too  is  flesh  and  blood,  and  a 
child  of  earth." 

I  returned  at  last  and  saw  her  again.  I  was  charmed 
— no,  that  is  not  the  word, — I  was  enchanted  !  Grace- 
ful and  slender — unutterably  lovely,  with  maiden  blushes, 
and  veiling  her  eyes — just  quitting  childhood  :  she  was 
not  quite  fifteen. 

But  as  I  pronounced  her  name  she  raised  those  won- 
drous eyes  and  looked  at  me.  Joy  trembled  in  tears,  and 
echoed  through  my  soul.  It  was  but  a  look,  but  I  was 
satisfied.  I  clasped  her  to  my  heart. 

Shall  I  call   them  happy,  the  days  which  now  had 


48  LKl'TFRS     FROM     HELL. 

dawned  ?     They  were  happy,  but  not  without  a  sting 
Seeing  Lily  was  as  though  reading  her  letters.     Again 
and  again  I  felt  she  was   the   child  of   another   sphere 
How  should  she  satisfy  me  ?     Even  while  I  clasped  her 
in  rapture  1  knew  her  aims  and  mine  were  far,  far  apart. 
As  childlike  as  ever,  hers  was  the  same  yielding  tender- 
ness ;    but    her   very   affection   filled    me   with    regret. 
The  love  in  which  she  moved  was  unknown  to  me  ;  she 
and   I   were  different  as  day  and  night,  as  heaven  and 
hell. 

Some  time  passed  away.  Again  my  mother  stepped 
between  us,  reminding  me  of  the  calls  of  good  sense  and 
propriety.  The  child  must  be  left  free  to  develop  ;  our 
constant  intercourse  would  end  in  her  treating  me  as  a 
brother  always,  and  that  was  not  what  I  wanted.  It  was 
desirable  that  I  should  take  bachelor's  rooms,  and  the 
less  I  showed  myself  at  home  the  better.  For  the  rest  I 
could  make  myself  as  agreeable  to  Lily  as  I  pleased,  and 
as  might  be  compatible  with  the  solemn  promise  not  to 
speak  to  her  of  love  till  she  should  have  completed  her 
seventeenth  year. 

My  mother  always  had  her  way  ;  I  promised  and  took 
rooms.  I  saw  she  was  right.  Lily  had  not  unfolded  in 
my  presence  as  she  might  have  done.  There  was  a 
change  on  my  leaving,  and  a  new  relationship  promised 
to  grow  out  of  the  old  one.  She  ceased  being  the  mere 
child,  her  natural  surrender  clothing  itself  with  maidenly 
reserve.  I  was  obliged  to  be  careful,  and  that  was  well. 
It  was  a  time  of  trial,  and  continued  so  in  spite  of  its 
own  share  of  anticipating  bliss.  .  .  . 

I  remembered  Annie  and  made  inquiries.  Her  father 
had  died  ;  what  had  become  of  her  no  one  could  tell. 
My  mother  could  have  told  I  doubted  not,  but  I  dared 
not  ask  her.  I  tried  to  stifle  recollection,  and  with  Lily's 
unconscious  assistance  I  succeeded. 

There  was  sorrow  on  the  horizon.  Lily  drooped.  She 
had  always  been  delicate,  and  waking  womanhood  found 
her  more  delicate  still.  Our  utmost  care  gathered  round 
her,  and  we  resolved  to  winter  in  the  south.  Lily  had 
grown  thoughtful ;  the  child  was  trying  to  understand 
herself,  dreamily  musing  within  her  soul.  She  seemed 
more  lovely  than  ever,  beset  with  the  riddles  of  her 
deepest  being.  But  delight  in  her  yielded  to  anxiety. 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  49 

Thus  we  three — my  mother,  Lily,  and.  myself — moved 
southward.  It  was  a  time  of  blessing ;  this  period  of 
my  life  appearing  steeped  in  light,  and  showing  of  dark- 
ness only  what  seemed  needful  to  enhance  the  light. 
Lily's  state  of  health  grew  less  alarming  ;  a  year  passed 
rapidly,  I  will  not  say  without  spot  or  blemish  as  far  as  it 
concerned  myself,  yet  without  leaving  any  real  scar  on 
the  tablets  of  memory.  It  was  all  but  Paradise — but 
now,  now  it  is  hell. 

How  happy  we  were,  we  three  together  !  My  mother 
amiability  itself — I  anxious  to  be  amiable — and  Lily  lift- 
ing her  fair  white  cup  to  receive  heaven's  dew.  She  was 
happy,  and  she  showed  it.  How  gracefully  she  raised 
her  drooping  head  !  how  radiant  were  her  looks,  drink- 
ing in  the  riches  of  beauty  about  her  !  Not  only  bodily, 
but  mentally,  she  unfolded  charm  upon  charm  in  the 
genial  atmosphere,  half  a  year  working  a  marvel  of 
change.  Womanhood  had  risen  in  the  blushes  of  dawn, 
sweet  and  fragrant  as  a  rose  just  opening  her  chalice  to 
the  dewy  kisses  of  morning.  In  her  relation  to  me  also 
childhood  receded  ;  as  tender  and  submissive  as  ever, 
there  was  an  unconscious  dignity  about  her.  She  was 
no  longer  the  petted  darling,  living  only  in  the  affection 
that  surrounded  her ;  but  she  had  found  riches  of  life, 
fathomless  and  beautiful,  within  her  own  being.  And 
before  long  she,  whose  natural  gifts  of  mind  and  heart 
far  surpassed  my  own,  had  gained  an  ascendancy  over 
me  as  complete  as  indescribable.  Gladly  I  yielded 
myself  to  this  influence  :  it  was  a  new  delight — noble 
and  purer  than  any  I  had  tasted  before.  Lily  raised  me 
above  myself — I  hardly  knew  it  at  the  time  ;  but  new 
sensations,  new  interests,  new  hopes,  filled  my  heart, 
teaching  me  gradually  that  there  were  better  things  in 
life  than  gratifying  self  and  pleasing  the  senses.  Day 
by  day  intercourse  with  her  refined  and  ennobled  my 
nature.  I  was  in  a  fair  way  of  becoming  good,  of  becom- 
ing human,  let  me  say  ! 

Her  own  eyes  had  opened  to  the  beauty  of  the  world — 
other  beauty  than  I  had  ever  known,  and  by  degrees  I 
learned  to  see  things  with  her  eyes.  But  her  look  and 
longing  continually  soared  beyond  this  world,  which 
could  not  satisfy  her  deepest  desire.  And  can  you 
believe  it.  she  drew  me  after  her.  What  power,  what 


50  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

influence  in  so  tender,  so  fragile  a  creature  !  It  cost  her 
no  effort.  I  followed,  followed,  as  though  her  soul  were 
a  beacon  in  darkness  I  listened  to  her  voice  as  to  the 
guidance  of  a  prophetess,  directing  my  sight  to  a  rapture 
of  bliss.  A  new  world, — a  world  of  the  spirit, — opened 
to  my  wondering  gaze,  a  vision  of  life  eternal  dawning 
slowly  beyond.  I  do  remember  them,  those  blissful 
hours  lifting  my  soul  from  the  dust.  Ah,  God  in  heaven, 
what  hours,  what  recollections,  and  now — what  despair  ! 

But  under  that  gentle  influence  I  began  to  look  back- 
ward also,  and  to  feel  ashamed — ashamed  of  the  love  I 
had  felt  for  Lily.  It  was  love — yes,  such  as  I  could 
give,  disgracing  that  sacred  name,  a  love  which  would 
have  frightened  her  to  death  had  she  known  it.  Sh  * 
was  spared  the  horror  of  that  discovery. 

Another  spring  was  at  hand,  we  were  thinking  of  mov 
ing  homewards.  Lily  had  suffered  lately  from  some' 
what  alarming  symptoms — spasms  of  the  heart,  the 
doctor  said.  But  we  would  not  disquiet  ourselves,  hop- 
ing nothing  serious  would  supervene.  Lily  within  these 
eighteen  months  had  blossomed  to  such  fullness  of  life, 
her  measure  overflowing,  as  it  were,  with  youth  and 
beauty,  and  adding  to  our  happiness  daily.  It  had 
rendered  us  fearless.  But  a  strange  anxiety  took  hold 
of  Lily,  showing  itself  whenever  we  spoke  of  returning 
home.  I  tried  to  discover  what  moved  her,  and  to  my 
utter  astonishment,  it  appeared  that  an  unsatisfied  long- 
ing filled  her  heart.  That  old  desire  of  her  childhood 
to  see  the  Holy  Land  had  suddenly  possessed  her  afresh  ; 
or  perhaps  the  thought,  as  a  hidden  spark,  had  lived 
within  her  all  these  years.  She  entreated  me  not  to  take 
her  home  before  she  had  set  foot  on  the  sacred  soil,  be 
it  for  ever  so  short  a  time.  She  could  never  rest,  she 
thought,  till  she  had  been  there,  and  if  I  would  but 
take  her  thither,  she  would  bless  me  for  it  even  in 
heaven. 

I  viewed  her  desire  merely  in  the  light  of  a  childish 
fancy,  even  a  foolish  whim  ;  yet  in  my  secret  heart  I 
admired  the  faithful  persistence  with  which  evidently  she 
had  clung  to  that  early  love  ;  it  touched  me,  and  I 
resolved,  as  far  as  lay  with  me,  that  her  wish  should  be 
gratified.  Indeed,  she  might  have  asked  for  a  far  more 
foolish  thing,  and  I  could  not  have  found  it  in  me  to 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  51 

deny  her.  When  she  begged  for  anything  with  that  sub- 
missive angel  look  of  hers,  who  could  have  resisted  ! 

I  consulted  my  mother ;  she  demurred  but  eventually 
agreed.  We  had  spent  those  early  spring  days  cruising 
about  the  Ionian  Isles,  and  before  long  our  faces  were 
set  to  the  east.  Lily  thanked  me  with  a  look,  a  sweet 
loving  look,  which  remained  deathless  in  my  heart — yea, 
and  it  will  burn  there  with  a  pain  unquenchable  through- 
out the  ages  of  hell.  But  from  that  hour  a  heavenly 
peace  had  settled  on  her.  Silence  had  fallen  upon  her, 
but  she  was  perfectly  happy. 

A  few  words  more  and  my  story  will  be  ended.  Why 
should  I  add  to  my  grief  by  speaking  about  it  ?  But 
retrospect  is  not  the  least  of  hell's  torments. 

We  touched  at  the  coast  of  Palestine  and  disembarked. 
As  a  queen  I  led  her  to  the  land  of  her  desire,  myself 
being  the  first  of  her  servants.  But  her  thoughts  were 
not  of  queenship  ;  to  her  own  mind  she  was  but  a  humble 
pilgrim.  Slowly  we  proceeded  from  one  sacred  spot  to 
another.  Lily's  illness  was  more  serious  than  we 
guessed,  but  she  would  not  hear  of  rest.  She  was  suffer- 
ing from  heart-disease  which  had  rapidly  '  developed. 
The  end  was  as  sudden  as  unlocked  for.  At  Bethle- 
hem, in  a  convent  which  received  us  for  charity's  sake, 
she  breathed  her  last,  a  few  days  before  she  had  com- 
pleted her  seventeenth  year.  She  died  with  the  satisfied 
smile  of  a  saint  on  her  face,  for  her  desire  had  been  given 
her. 

Death  with  her  had  lost  its  terror.  As  one  glorified 
she  lay — pale,  but  in  heavenly  beauty ;  her  hands 
folded  on  her  virgin  bosom  where  the  world  had  not 
entered. 

Perhaps  you  will  scarcely  believe  my  words,  that  even 
in  those  last  hours,  and  though  I  sickened  with  the  sense 
of  certain  loss,  she  had  power  to  lift  me  high  above  per- 
ishable grief.  A  fearless  trust  had  come  to  me  that,  no 
matter  what  affliction  remained  on  earth,  the  place  was 
prepared  where  I  might  be  united  with  her,  where  there 
is  no  more  sorrow  and  no  more  pain,  where  death  has 
passed  away. 

Terrible  delusion  ! 

Her  last  words  fell  upon  my  heart  as  a  blessing  from 
the  upper  world  : 


5  2  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

"  Thanks,  Philip  !    I  am   happy — God  be  with   you!  " 

I  was  stricken  with  grief.  But  my  inmost  soul  was 
buoyed  with  the  hope  that  soon  I,  too,  might  rise  beyond 
the  reach  of  sorrow.  In  a  holy  kiss  her  last  breath 
had  mingled  with  mine. 

But  scarcely  was  she  gone  when  the  old  self-willed 
nature  within  me  rose.  Goaded  to  despair  I  was  wild 
with  the  knowledge  of  bereavement — what  a  treasure  I 
had  lost,  both  of  beauty  and  affection,  what  riches  of 
promise,  of  joys  untasted.  And  how  near  I  had  been  to 
dreams  realized — but  a  few  days  and  she  would  have 
been  mine  !  As  a  wild  beast  I  raged,  defrauded  of  its 
prey.  She — she  had  escaped  rne  !  This  then  was  the 
reward  of  years  of  patience  and  self-denial.  In  her  I 
had  saved  up  treasures — pleasures  untold,  to  lose  it  all 
by  a  single  blow  !  .  .  .  And  yet  was  it  not  meet  it 
should  be  so  ?  Should  I  not  rejoice  that  she  was  spared 
the  sad  future  that  awaited  her,  the  unholy  touch  of  my 
passion  ?  I  could  not  rejoice  then,  Lily,  but  I  think  I 
could  now — if  I  were  not  in  hell  ! 

My  mother  too  was  grieved,  but  she  did  not  lose  her 
composure  ;  she  sorrowed  more  for  me,  I  think,  than  for 
the  loss  of  her  we  had  loved.  We  buried  Lily  in  the 
Holy  Land.  She  sleeps  beneath  a  sycamore,  not  far 
from  the  spot  where  the  Saviour  of  men  was  born. 

We  turned  homeward.  On  our  journey  back  I  found 
Martin. 

Thus  I  became  the  man  I  was.  I  gave  myself  up  to 
the  world,  and  lived  only  for  its  pleasures.  I  loved  no 
one  but  myself,  excepting,  perhaps,  my  mother  and  the 
boy  I  had  adopted.  I  say  perhaps,  for  that  I  really  loved 
them  I  cannot  now  be  sure.  I  conformed  to  outward 
Christianity,  but  my  heart  was  far  from  it.  True,  I 
joined  not  the  sinners  who  openly  sit  in  the  seat  of  the 
scornful,  laughing  at  all  things  sacred  ;  but  after  Lily's 
death  there  was  in  reality  nothing  left  I  counted  sacred, 
unless  it  be  an  occasional  recollection  of  my  own  child- 
hood left  far,  far  behind.  For  at  times  I  did  remember 
those  early  days  at  Aunt  Betty's  knee,  but  I  closed  my< 
heart,  driving  these  thoughts  away  from  it. 

Life  dealt  gently  with  my  mother.  She  preserved  her 
charms,  and  continued  the  perfect  lady,  admired  by  all. 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  53 

She  had  always  been  pious,  but  she  took  to  being  saintly 
now,  trying  hard  to  show  me  the  way  of  life.  However, 
she  could  not  bring  me  further  than  that,  for  her  sake,  I 
paid  proper  attention  to  Christian  observances,  and,  for 
my  own  sake,  to  common  decency  in  the  pursuit  of 
pleasure. 

Let  me  stop  here  and  rest  from  the  pain  of  confession. 
Do  not  imagine  that  confessing  with  us  is  followed  by 
relief.  I  am  in  hell,  where  there  is  no  more  repentance, 
no  more  sorrow  for  sin. 


LETTER   VII. 

LIGHT  increases  slowly,  but  we  never  reach  further 
than  a  kind  of  luminous  twilight — the  reflection  of  Para- 
dise. Time  passes  amid  suffering,  torture,  and  regret. 
Do  not  imagine  that  because  I  can  write  what  perchance 
interests  you,  it  follows  that  it  interests  me,  or  that  I  can 
fill  up  my  time.  That,  too,  is  but  imaginary  ;  time  seems 
to  pass,  but  alleviation  there  is  none.  Upon  earth  the 
worst  misery  yields  to  the  consolation  that,  sooner  or 
later,  it  must  come  to  an  end.  But  here — awful  fact — 
time  itself  is  endless  ! 

Memories  !  memories  !  Facts  long  since  forgotten, 
here  they  are,  as  though  they  had  happened  but  yester- 
day. I  try  to  escape  them,  and  once  more  recollections 
of  Aunt  Betty  are  something  of  an  anodyne.  In  think- 
ing of  her,  and  her  invariable  kindness  to  me  throughout 
the  years  of  my  childhood,  I  long  for  tears  of  gratitude. 
But  the  eye  is  dry  as  a  parched  desert.  How  good  she 
was  to  me,  but  kindest  of  all  to  my  father !  And  how 
loving  to  all  whom  she  could  serve.  The  humblest  was 
not  beneath  her,  if  she  could  lend  him  a  helping  hand. 
How  often  would  she  sit  up  for  my  mother,  sending  the 
tired  maid  to  bed.  How  often  would  she  spend  an  even- 
ing with  the  servant  girls,  showing  them  how  to  make 
their  own  clothes,  and  teaching  them  the  art  of  laying  by 
something  out  of  their  wages.  She  would  read  to  them, 
and  amuse  them  to  keep  them  steady,  and  was  actually 
going  to  teach  the  coachman  his  letters.  But  there  my 


54  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

father  interfered,  introducing  him  to  a.  night-school 
instead. 

Her  health  was  anything  but  strong,  yet  she  never 
considered  herself  when  the  burdens  of  others  could  be 
lightened.  If  ever  anything  made  her  angry,  it  was  the 
request  to  take  care  of  herself,  "//"she  would  say, 
as  if  the  most  monstrous  demand  had  been  proffered, 
"/.? — what  do  you  mean!"  She  had  put  self  so  far 
away  that  the  idea  of  caring  for  it  appeared  to  her  almost 
ludicrous.  Love  gave  her  a  wondrous  power  of  self- 
command.  When  my  mother  had  hurt  her  feelings — no 
rare  occurrence  I  fear — and  she  had  brushed  away  the 
tears,  she  never  failed  doing  a  special  turn  of  sisterly 
service  with  a  face  of  angelic  devotion  ;  anxious  to  appear 
all  the  more  light-hearted  in  my  father's  presence,  if  per- 
chance he  had  noticed  it,  and  looked  distressed.  Of 
course  her  own  loving  and  hopeful  disposition  assisted 
her  in  ever  making  the  best  of  things  ;  but  more  than 
this,  it  was  the  divine  spirit  moving  in  her.  Love  had 
become  second  nature  to  her.  And  love  always  helped 
her  in  doing  the  right  thing,  however  strangely  she  might 
set  about  it.  Her  education  had  been  neglected  even 
as  regards  religious  knowledge.  If  you  had  asked  her 
the  simplest  questions  about  faith  and  hope  and  charity 
she  would  probably  have  startled  you  with  ignorant 
answers  ;  but  she  had  these  things,  and  they  made  her  a 
child  of  heaven. 

The  room  she  had  chosen  for  herself  was  simple,  but 
her  own  neatness  pervaded  it.  Yet  one  could  not  say 
there  was  any  order  in  her  room.  Every  available  space 
was  littered  with  objects  great  and  small  in  wonderful 
variety,  offering  to  the  observant  mind  a  key  to  my 
aunt's  inmost  nature  ;  for  amid  valuables  of  every  descrip- 
tion there  were  articles  only  fit  for  the  dust-bin 
apparently.  But  my  aunt  knew  why  she  valued  them. 
They  were  a  sort  of  landmarks,  in  her  estimation,  by 
which  her  life's  history  could  be  traced.  Even  at  an 
early  age  I  had  a  vague  notion  of  the  sanctity  of  these 
relics,  and  must  own  I  handled  them  reverently.  They 
would  set  my  fancy  going,  and  I  would  invent  stories 
where  auntie's  authentic  knowledge  appeared  loth  to  lift 
the  veil. 

Aunt  Betty,   as  a   rule,   dressed   more   than   simply, 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  55 

despising  all  pretence  at  fashion  in  her  daily  life.  Not 
that  she  "  could  not  an'  she  would,"  as  she  used  to  say. 
And  she  valued  a  handsome  present  now  and  then,  not 
for  the  sake  of  the  object  itself,  but  as  a  mark  of  people's 
regard  for  her.  She  liked  to  be  thus  honored  by  those, 
for  whom  she  spent  herself  in  service  !  Both  my  father 
and  my  mother  lost  no  opportunity  of  presenting  her  with 
costly  gifts,  articles  of  dress  especially,  if  my  mother  was 
the  giver.  Aunt  Betty  would  accept  these  things  with 
almost  childish  satisfaction,  shutting  them  up  forthwith 
in  her  spacious  wardrobe.  And  thus  it  came  about  that 
she  owned  quite  an  array  of  millinery,  shawls,  mantles, 
bonnets,  laces,  furs,  and  what  not,  without  ever  wearing 
them.  That  they  grew  old-fashioned  did  not  trouble 
her  in  the  least ;  but  that  the  moth  should  not  eat  them 
was  her  conscientious  care.  For  this  reason  she  would 
hold  regular  exhibitions,  when  bed,  table,  and  chairs 
were  loaded  with  her  treasures  by  way  of  giving  them  an 
airing  ;  she  walking  about  with  a  quiet  expression  of 
ownership,  her  gentle  hands  smoothing  out  or  dusting 
her  finery.  But  her  eyes  seemed  far  away.  Or,  if  a 
gay  mood  supervened,  she  would  even  place  a  feathered 
bonnet  on  her  dear  old  head,  looking  at  herself  in  the 
glass  with  a  peculiar  smile,  as  though  she  were  comparing 
the  once  maiden  Betty,  whose  youth  and  beauty  brought 
homage  to  her  feet,  with  the  aging  spinster  whom  the 
world  scarcely  knew  now,  whose  life  had  run  in  the 
narrow  channel  of  sacrifice.  "  I  am  an  old  goose,"  she 
would  say,  putting  up  her  gear  with  her  lavender  bags. 

But  auntie,  besides  these  things,  owned  a  small  library 
of  choice  works,  beautifully  bound.  She  would  dust 
them  as  lovingly  as  those  unused  garments.  But  she 
never  read  them,  having  neither  time  nor  quiet,  she  said. 
"  Some  day  when  I  am  old,  and  no  longer  needed,  I  will 
read  them  all,"  she  would  add.  Among  her  many 
peculiarities  her  habit  of  reading  aloud  deserves  notice. 
Understanding,  in  her  case,  presupposed  hearing,  which 
proves  that  the  art  of  reading  with  her  never  reached 
beyond  the  rudimentary  stage.  Poor  Aunt  Betty,  keep- 
ing your  books  for  a  time  when  you  are  no  longer  needed  ! 
But  that  time  found  you  singing  psalms  with  the  angels. 
In  the  dusk  of  the  evening  I  would  often  seek  her 
room.  I  would  find  her  sitting  in  silence  and  lost  in 


56  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

thought.  But  she  was  never  annoyed  at  my  disturbing 
her — she  loved  me  too  much  for  that.  And  then  she 
would  begin  telling  me  stories,  quite  a  special  gift  with 
her.  I  doubt  not  but  that  she  mostly  made  up  her 
stories  as  she  told  them.  What  if  they  were  no  great 
literary  productions,  they  breathed  a  poetry  of  their  own 
— a  warmth  and  loving  kindness  that  fascinated  my 
childish  heart.  It  was  Aunt  Betty  who  first  instructed 
me  in  religion.  If  her  teaching  was  not  exactly  dog- 
matic, it  was  most  truly  practical.  The  impressions  it 
left — so  deep,  so  sweet,  so  tender — how  could  they  ever 
fade  away  ! 

One  evening  we  were  sitting  by  her  window.  The 
sky  was  clear  and  the  stars  were  shining  with  unusual 
brightness.  The  wondrous  sight  impressed  my  childish 
mind.  No  doubt  I  had  noticed  them  before  ;  but  look- 
ing back  to  that  hour,  it  seems  as  though  on  that  evening 
I  first  beheld  the  sparkling  lights  of  heaven.  I  wanted 
to  know  what  the  stars  were,  and  what  was  behind  them. 
Then  Aunt  Betty  spoke  to  me  of  the  dwelling-place  of 
our  Heavenly  Father  and  its  many  mansions  of  inde- 
scribable beauty.  I  would  go  there  some  day  on  leaving 
earth,  if  I  were  a  good  and  holy  child. 

The  prospect  pleased  me,  but  curiosity  was  not  satis- 
fied. I  wanted  to  know  more — I  wanted  a  direct  answer 
to  my  question.  Now,  many  an  instructor  of  youth 
might  have  been  puzzled,  but  Aunt  Betsy's  imagination 
was  far  too  fertile  to  be  so  easily  at  fault.  She  continued 
therefore  :  "  Behind  the  stars,  my  child  there  is  a  grand 
beautiful  hall  of  glory  such  as  eye  has  not  seen,  and 
there  God  sits  upon  His  throne  with  the  only-begotten 
Son  at  His  right  hand.  Right  in  the  middle  of  the  hall 
there  is  a  Christmas  tree,  higher  than  the  highest  moun- 
tain on  earth,  full  of  lights  and  most  beautiful  presents. 
And  who  do  you  think  are  gathered  beneath  that  tree  ? 
— why,  all  the  good  children  who,  having  lived  holy  lives, 
have  come  to  be  children  of  God  and  blessed  angels. 
There  they  are,  always  happy,  always  good.  They 
rejoice  at  the  tree  which  is  prepared  for  them,  and  praise 
God  with  new  songs,  their  voices  ringing  sweetly  through 
the  spaces  of  heaven.  The  presents  on  the  tree  are  all 
theirs — I  mean  they  are  always  being  given  to  them — 
yet  the  tree  is  never  empty." 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  57 

I  thought  this  delightful.  "  But  what  are  the  stars  ?  " 
I  said,  reverting  to  my  question. 

"  The  stars,  child  ? — well,  I  will  tell  you,"  said  auntie. 
"  Right  round  that  hall  there  are  innumerable  little  peep- 
holes through  which  the  light  of  the  Christmas  tree  shines 
upon  earth.  We  call  them  stars.  Whenever  the  little 
angel-children  have  done  singing,  they  go  and  look 
through  these  peep-holes,  anxious  to  know  whether  boys 
and  girls  on  earth  are  trying  to  be  good,  and  likely  to 
join  them  some  day  ;  for  they  consider  them  their  little 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  wish  them  to  become  as  happy 
as  they  are.  Whenever  you  see  the  stars  therefore,  you 
must  remember  that  through  each  one  of  them  the  eye  of 
some  angel  looks  down  upon  you.  That  is  why  the  stars 
twinkle,  just  as  these  big  eyes  of  yours  twinkle  as  you  look 
at  me.  Now  you  see  that  you  must  always  try  to  be 
good  and  obedient  else  some  angel's  eyes  would  fill  with 
tears  ;  and  you  would  not  like  them  to  be  sad  while 
watching  you." 

This  account  so  moved  me  that  tears  rose  to  my  own 
eyes,  and  I  lay  sobbing  in  Aunt  Betty's  lap.  It  was  the 
desire  of  knowing  more  which  first  tended  to  quiet  me  : 

"But,  auntie,"  I  said,  "tell  me  what  happens  to  all 
the  bad  children  ?" 

This  question  very  nearly  puzzled  her.  She  was  too 
tender-hearted  to  speak  to  me  of  hell  and  its  terrors,  so 
she  said  :  "  The  bad  children — well,  I  think  they  are  put 
into  some  dark  corner — far,  far  away  from  God  and  His 
dear  Son." 

Again  I  was  not  satisfied  ;  there  must  be  more. 

"Well,"  she  continued, — "listen.  The  bad  children 
are  shut  up  in  an  ugly  room,  where  the  fire  has  gone 
out,  and  where  it  is  so  cold  and  miserable  that  they 
chatter  with  their  teeth.  It  is  dark  too,  for  the  light 
has  been  taken  away,  and  they  tremble  with  fear.  They 
cry  and  knock  at  the  door  as  hard  as  they  can,  but  no 
one  pays  any  attention." 

I  thought  that  dreadful.  "  I  am  frightened,  auntie," 
I  whispered,  pressing  quite  close  to  her. 

"  Look  up  at  the  stars,  my  child,"  she  said  ;  "  then 
you  won't  be  frightened."  And  she  stroked  my  hair 
lovingly. 

Fear  left  me.     The  stars  did  twinkle  as  though  they 


58  LETTERS     FROM     H1.LL. 

said,  "  Be  good,  little  child  ;  "  and  I  felt  quite  ready  to 
be  good. 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  them  sing,"  I  went  on  presently. 
"Do  you  know,  auntie,  how  angels  sing?" 

"  I  will  try  and  show  you,"  she  responded,  falling  in  at 
once  with  my  desire.  And  with  her  sweet  voice  she  sang 
to  me  one  of  her  favorite  hymns.  How  beautiful  it 
sounded  in  the  evening  twilight.  There  was  nothing 
grand  about  her  voice,  but  something  so  childlike  in  its 
gentle  tones  that  the  song  sank  into  my  heart  as  I  kept 
watching  the  stars  ;  and  they  seemed  to  look  down  upon 
me  as  kind  as  auntie  herself,  twinkling  again  and  again, 
"  Be  good  !  "  Another  moment,  and  my  hearing  was 
charmed,  following  my  gaze.  Earth  was  not,  but  only 
heaven,  and  auntie's  hymn  was  the  new  song  of  angels. 
I  listened  with  a  rapt  devotion  that  swelled  my  childish 
soul,  folding  my  hands  unconsciously  as  Aunt  Betty 
had  taught  me  ;  and  I  tried«to  twinkle  back  at  the  stars 
with  my  own  eyes  to  let  them  see  that  with  my  ears,  with 
my  heart,  I  was  listening  to  their  angels. 

When  the  singing  ceased  and  silence  had  carried  me 
back  to  the  present,  I  felt  quite  poor  and  forsaken.  But 
all  that  night  in  dreams  I  saw  the  heavenly  tree,  and 
heard  the  songs  of  glory. 

Many  an  evening  we  spent  like  that,  Aunt  Betty  sing- 
ing, and  I  watching  the  stars.  And  before  long  I  had 
learned  her  hymns  and  we  sang  them  together.  I  believe 
it  was  with  auntie  as  with  myself  :  singing  our  hymns  to 
the  praise  of  God,  we  felt  both  carried  away  from  earth, 
both  longing  for  that  which  is  behind  the  stars. 

One  evening  Aunt  Betty  told  me  the  story  of  the  rich 
man  and  poor  Lazarus.  It  greatly  affected  me.  I  was 
very  glad  for  the  poor  beggar  to  have  been  carried  right 
into  Abraham's  bosom,  where  he  was  so  happy  ;  but  the 
rich  man  longing  in  the  torment  of  hell  for  a  little  drop 
of  water  moved  my  deepest  pity.  I  grieved  for  him, 
shedding  an  agony  of  tears.  Poor  rich  man,  how  hard 
it  was  to  punish  him  so  dreadfully  !  Auntie  was  quite 
unhappy  at  my  distress.  No  doubt  she  meant  to  impress 
me,  but  not  in  this  way,  and  she  tried  her  utmost  to  calm 
my  feelings. 

"  Don't  take  it  to  heart  so  much,  child,"  she  said.  "1 
do  not  think  you  need.  And  it  was  very  unkind  of 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  $9 

Father  Abraham  to  deny  him  a  poor  drop  of  water. 
God,  I  dare  say,  did  not  like  that  at  all  ;  indeed,  if  I 
know  Him  aright,  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  Father 
Abraham  had  a  scolding  for  it.  For  if  a  drop  of  water 
could  comfort  the  rich  man  in  his  torment,  I  don't 
believe  God  would  have  refused  it.  And  He  who  freely 
gave  his  precious  blood  would  not  be  so  unkind  about 
mere  water.  And,  moreover,  didn't  you  hear  that  the 
rich  man  even  in  hell  remembered  his  brethren  ?  That, 
I  am  quite  certain,  pleased  God  very  much  indeed. 
Love  to  the  brethren  cannot  but  move  the  heart  of  God, 
even  if  it  comes  right  from  the  midst  of  hell." 

Thus  she  comforted  me.  She  would  not  have  hesitated 
to  say  a  great  deal  more  than  this  to  still  my  grief.  Poor 
Aunt  Betty  ! — I  said  she  could  not  dogmatize :  the  one 
creed  she  was  sure  of  was  God's  wonderful  love  ;  and 
judging  that  love  by  her  own  loving  heart,  she  believed 
it  fully  capable  of  flooding  all  creation  with  its  own 
indwelling  goodness.  But  why  do  I  call  her  poor  ?  It 
is  I  who  am  poor — all  the  poorer  for  memories  :  I  will 
not  call  them  painful  memories,  though  I  ache  with  them. 
Do  you  understand  me  ?  Even  in  hell  something 
precious  is  bound  up  with  such  memories,  though  on  the 
other  hand  it  cannot  but  add  to  grief — just  as  a  certain 
sweetness  in  some  viands  brings  out  the  fact  that  they 
are  sour.  I  speak  of  childhood's  memories  :  those  of 
later  years,  save  those  connected  with  Lily,  are  all  sorrow 
— all  despair  ;  I  would  gladly  forget  them,  but  it  is  part 
of  my  punishment  that  I  cannot. 

Thus  I  distinctly  remember  the  religious  instruction 
which  was  to  prepare  me  for  confirmation.  I  was  deeply 
moved,  and  hardly  know  how  such  impressions  should 
pass  so  quickly,  so  entirely,  as  though  they  had  not  been. 
The  clergyman  in  question  was  as  godly  as  venerable  ; 
the  animal  nature  was  strong  in  me  even  then,  but  he 
knew  how  to  keep  it  under.  It  needed  but  a  look  of  his 
eye,  and  I  felt  a  prisoner  to  the  divine,  listening  anxiously 
to  his  teaching.  He  had  a  rare  gift  of  touching  the 
heart  and  drawing  it  out.  He  spoke  to  us  on  the  words: 
"  Be  ye  reconciled  to  God  !  "  How  could  I  ever  forget 
those  words  ?  Alas,  I  did  forget  them,  but  now  they 
pierce  the  soul  ;  they  keep  ringing  in  the  brain  :  "  Be 
reconciled — be  reconciled  to  God  ! "  And  when  once 


60  LETTERS     FROM     KELT,. 

their  memory  is  upon  me,  nothing  will  drive  it  out,  till 
some  other  recollection,  some  other  pain,  takes  their 
place. 

I  remember  all  he  said  on  that  occasion, — I  remember 
it  now  from  beginning  to  end, — but  I  could  not  repeat  it, 
there  being  a  great  gulf  between  now  and  the  time  of 
those  words.  Nor  can  the  recollection  of  them  do  me 
any  good;  they  are  barren  of  comfort,  of  instruction — bar- 
ren entirely  of  peace.  It  is  only  my  mind  which  takes 
them  in  now  ;  the  heart  is  closed.  It  is  as  though  the 
words  were  hollow;  or  perhaps  I  am  hollow  and  empty, 
and  there  is  nothing  left  that  can  fill  me.  I  do  remember 
that  he  spoke  to  us  of  God's  own  word,  whereby  salva- 
tion was  offered  to  men,  but  all  that  is  outside  of  me  only. 
I  am  like  the  rich  man  thirsting  for  a  drop  of  water,  but 
there  is  no  one  to  give  it.  1  make  painful  efforts  to 
drink  in,  as  it  were,  any  of  the  words  I  think  of  ;  they 
are  there;  I  once  knew  them  by  heart,  but  I  cannot  lay- 
hold  of  them.  They  seem  quite  close  at  times,  but  when 
I  would  take  them  to  myself,  they  are  gone.  This 
terribly  hopeless  effort  is  perhaps  the  worst  of  hell's 
torments. 

You  may  understand  from  this  how  it  is  possible  with 
me  to  speak  of  things  pertaining  to  the  kingdom  of  God 
— naming  the  Saviour,  the  Crucified  One,  speaking  of 
repentance  and  faith — without  the  faintest  share  in  their 
blessing ;  nay,  mentioning  them  with  my  lips  merely, 
despair  filling  the  heart.  Everything  is  vain  and  empty 
in  hell :  those  words  are  but  soulless  sounds  to  me  ;  I 
know  them  outwardly,  I  can  speak  of  them,  but  their 
meaning  is  nothing  to  me.  I  know  that  there  is  a 
Saviour,  and  that  He  is  the  Son  of  God,  but  Him  I 
know  not  ;  it  is  empty  knowledge  ;  His  very  name  even 
is  gone.  I  hate  myself,  and  say  I  have  deserved  it  all ; 
but  it  is  fruitless  repentance — repentance  without  cleans- 
ing tears.  And  as  for  faith,  of  course  I  believe — must 
believe ;  but  that  too  is  empty — not  faith  which  clings  to 
that  which  it  believes.  Do  not  the  devils  believe — they 
must — and  tremble  ?  "  Be  reconciled  to  God  !  "  What 
power  these  words  had  to  move  me  !  I  felt  in  that  hour 
as  though  it  must  be  man's  one  and  only  object  on  earth 
to  seek  reconciliation  with  God,  and,  having  found  it,  to 
go  to  Him  through  the  portal  of  death.  I  remembered  the 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  6 1 

stars  and  their  loving  message,  "  Be  good  !  "  and  I  felt 
ready  to  turn  my  ba  k  upon  the  world  once  for  all.  My 
first  communion  was  as  an  earnest  that  I  had  set  my 
feet  upon  the  path  to  heaven,  but  I  quickly  turned  aside  ; 
at  the  very  church  door  the  world  lay  waiting  with  its 
pleasant  road  to  hell. 

"Be  reconciled  to  God!" — the  words  keep  sounding 
about  me,  not  as  an  echo  from  heaven,  but  rather  as  a 
curse  of  hell.  "  Be  reconciled — reconciled  to  God  !  " 
Why  must  I  hear  it  when  there  is  no  more  reconciliation 
— when  the  door  of  mercy  is  closed.  O  terrible  retribu- 
tion ! 

If  at  times  I  know  not  what  to  do  with  myself,  I  show 
myself  in  the  Row,  for  of  course  that  too  is  here — Hyde 
Park,  Champs  Elysees,  Prater,  Unter  den  Linden,  Corso, 
Prado,  all  in  one.  And  upon  my  word  I  do  not  think 
there  is  much  difference  between  these  fashionable 
resorts  upon  earth  and  their  semblance  here — I  mean  so 
far  as  what  the  world  pleases  to  call  style  is  concerned  ; 
we  could  scarcely  outdo  the  world  in  that  respect,  but 
we  have  far  more  variety.  For  with  you  but  one  fashion 
can  prevail  at  a  time,  whereas  here  all  fashions  flourish, 
all  the  nonsense  of  centuries  combined.  Just  think  of 
that — all  the  inventions  of  la  mode  brought  together,  say 
of  a  thousand  years  !  Could  there  be  a  more  absurd 
picture,  taking  the  fashion  of  dress  for  instance  ?  What- 
ever gloom  or  wretchedness  be  upon  me,  I  assure  you  I 
laugh  right  out  at  the  sight — folly  convicted  out  of  its 
own  mouth  as  it  were.  Just  stop  for  a  moment  and 
imagine  the  effect — women  covered  to  the  neck  with 
flounces  and  furbelows  on  the  one  hand,  or  half  naked 
on  the  other  ;  puffed  out  to  deformity  here,  tight  as 
pump-handles  there.  Bonnets  like  coal-scuttles  here, 
bonnets  like  cheese-plates  there  !  But  who  could  name 
all  their  nonsense  of  farthingales  and  stomachers,  ruffles 
and  laces,  crinolines  and  high-art-styles,  fancy  costumes 
and  divided  skirts  ?  not  to  mention  chignons  like  very 
towers  of  Babel,  and  simpleton  fringes,  and  what  not. 
Imagine  them,  I  say,  the  fools  of  ten  years  only  brought 
together,  and  try  to  think  of  the  fools  of  ten  centuries  ! 
And  then  to  believe  any  one  fashion  beauti  ul,  any  one 
of  them  dictated  by  the  "good  taste"  to  which  they  all  pre-. 


62  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

tend.  In  the  world  somehow  they  pass  for  beautiful,  per- 
haps because  only  one  at  a  time  can  rule  ;  but  since  every 
fashion  which  has  had  its  day  straightway  goes  to  hell, 
and  since  there  is  no  past  here  but  a  continuous  present, 
they  all  flourish  together,  and  a  nice  medley  it  is  !  One 
feels  ashamed  of  humanity  at  the  absurd  sight.  And 
what  is  more,  fashionable  people  here  are  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  themselves,  though  they  try  hard  to  appear 
very  proud  of  their  clothes.  It  is  a  show  of  vanity,  and 
we  are  horribly  conscious  of  it — I  say  we,  since  I  am 
sure  I  am  no  better  than  the  rest.  We  know  what  sorry 
fools  we  are,  but  nevertheless  we  are  very  anxious  to 
dress  ourselves,  choosing  the  fashion  we  followed  in  the 
world.  And  the  worst  is,  our  clothes  do  not  even  clothe 
us,  as  I  told  you  already  ;  we  all  see  through  each  other's 
attire,  no  matter  how  stylish  it  is.  True,  that  painful 
sense  of  nakedness  is  common  to  all  here  ;  still  to  be 
naked  is  one  thing,  and  to  go  about  naked,  pretending 
at  the  same  time  to  be  fashionably  dressed,  is  another ; 
and  it  is  very  hard  to  be  laughed  at,  knowing  all  the 
while  how  heartily  one  deserves  it. 

Would  all  the  votaries  of  fashion,  men  and  women  on 
earth,  could  view — were  it  for  a  moment  only — its  true 
appearance  as  seen  in  hell,  and  they  would  never  desire 
to  be  fashionable  again  ! 

It  is  strange — no,  not  strange,  but  sadly  true — that 
most  people  believe  vanity  and  the  love  of  dress  no  great 
sin,  but,  at  worst,  only  one  of  those  amiable  foibles  to 
which  one  may  plead  guilty  quite  innocently. 

Love  of  dress  in  itself  perhaps  need  not  become  a  sin — 
I'say perhaps ;  but  look  at  it  as  you  please,  there  is  that 
connected  with  it  which  cannot  but  tend  to  the  soul's 
ruin.  Its  aims  and  the  aims  of  the  spirit  lie  widely 
apart ;  it  takes  the  place  of  better  things,  and  vanity, 
clinging  to  you  as  a  cloud,  will  hide  the  true  objects  of 
life.  Men  or  women  ruled  by  vanity  fritter  away  their 
time,  and  when  they  die  not  only  good  works  do  not 
follow  them,  but  opportunities  wasted  stand  round  their 
bier.  Who  has  the  face  now  to  say  that  vanity,  that  love 
of  dress,  is  harmless  ? 

I  look  upon  my  own  life.  How  plainly  I  see  it  all 
now, — how  gladly  would  I  improve  opportunities,  could 
they  but  return  ! 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  63 

I  am  inclined  to  conclude  this  letter  with  a  little  story 
I  once  heard  somewhere  in  Italy,  feeling  loth  at  the  same 
time  to  do  so,  for  there  are  things  about  which  one  should 
not  speak  jestingly,  least  of  all  in  hell. 

However,  the  thing  is  not  without  its  lesson,  which 
may  be  useful  to  you.  Nor  is  it  fear  that  would  prevent 
me,  but  rather  an  instinctive  dread,  a  kind  of  repugnance, 
to  appear  making  light  of  a  solemn  verity.  It  is  a  sort 
of  burlesque  myth,  but  containing  that  which  should  not 
be  laughed  at.  Here  it  is  : 

God  from  all  eternity  had  purposed  in  His  counsel  to 
make  man.  And  the  devil  from  the  beginning  knew  the 
rnind  of  God.  God  carried  out  His  eternal  purpose. 
He  made  man,  and  it  was  easy  for  Him  to  make  him 
good  :  He  simply  created  him  in  His  own  image.  But 
the  devil  made  desperate  efforts  to  discover  how  he 
might  mar  this  image  of  God. 

"  I  have  got  it !  "  said  Lucifer  to  his  grandmother, 
who  sat  knitting  in  a  dark  corner  of  hell.  She  was 
always  knitting  toils  and  looping  snares  to  catch  the 
unwary,  though,  being  a  person  of  property,  she  had  no 
need  to  work  so  hard. 

"  I  have  got  it !  "  repeated  Lucifer.  "  I  will  put  evil 
desire  into  man's  heart,  so  that  he  shall  love  the  for- 
bidden, and  delight  in  disobedience.  I  will  make  a 
wrongdoer  of  him." 

"All  right,  my  boy — all  right,"  said  the  grandam  ; 
"but  that  won't  do  it.  Evil  desire  may  be  conquered, 
and  the  Lord  God  is  the  One  to  do  it." 

"  The  deuce  !  "  cried  Lucifer.  "  You  may  be  right 
though;  I'll  think  of  something  else."  And  down  he 
went  to  the  nethermost  hell,  where  he  had  his  private 
study.  And  there  he  spent  a  thousand  years  in  deepest 
meditation,  staring  into  the  future  with  burning  eyes. 

"  I  have  got  it !  "  he  cried  again,  rushing  up  in  a 
whirlwind.  "  I  shall  fill  the  heart  of  man  with  self-love 
and  self-will.  I  shall  infatuate  him  so  entirely  that  he 
will  ever  think  of  himself  first.  I  shall  make  a  vain- 
glorious wretch  of  him,  more  or  less,  as  the  case  may 
be." 

"All  right,  my  boy,  all "  But  here  she  dropped  a 

stitch.  "  Catch  up  a  firebrand — that'll  do,  I  see  !  Yes, 
my  boy,  all  right;  but  that  won't  do  it.  Self-love  and 


64  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

self-will  may  be  rooted  out,  and  the  Lord  God  is  the  One 
to  do  it." 

"  Confound  it,"  roared  Lucifer,  "  that  these  silly 
creatures  should  be  so  hard  to  ruin.  They  are  scarcely 
worth  the  trouble.  But  I  shall  get  them, — -pazienzay  I 
mean  to  get  them  !  "  And  away  he  went  to  consider  the 
matter  once  more  in  his  study. 

A  thousand  years  again  had  passed — he  knew  it  not; 
and  returning  from  his  cogitation,  the  grandam  still 
sat  knitting  on  the  spot  where  he  had  left  her.  She  was 
so  old  that  a  thousand  years  did  not  add  so  much  as  a 
wrinkle  to  her  ugly  skin.  She  seemed  more  intent  than 
ever  upon  her  work. 

"  Now  I  have  got  it  ! "  cried  Satan  exultingly.  "  I 
myself  will  take  up  my  abode  in  man's  heart  and  will 
utterly  pervert  him.  He  shall  take  falsehood  for  truth, 
vice  for  virtue,  shame  for  honor.  I'll  make  a  fool  of 
him — a  fool  of  perversity." 

"  My  boy,"  said  the  grandmother,  gloating  over  her 
meshes,  "  that  won't  do  it,  my  boy.  What  has  been  per- 
verted can  be  converted,  and  the  Lord  God  is  the  One 
to  do  it." 

"  I  shall  give  it  up,"  growled  the  devil  despondingly; 
"it  quite  spoils  my  digestion;  however,  I  will  make  one 
more  effort." 

Another  thousand  years  rolled  on  without  record  or 
almanac  and  no  one  could  tell  what  had  become  of  them. 

Once  more  Lucifer  returned  to  his  aged  relative  ;  he 
really  did  look  worn  and  in  need  of  atonic.  The  devil's 
grandmother,  strange  to  say,  had  done  knitting,  nets  and 
snares  in  untold  quantity  being  ready  for  ages  to  come. 
She  sat  twiddling  her  thumbs  and  longing  for  her  hope- 
ful progeny — lovable  or  hateful,  he  was  her  only  one. 

"  Sure,  I've  got  it  now  !  "  exclaimed  Lucifer,  entering 
her  presence.  "  Vanity  shall  be  man's  second  nature, — 
vanity  and  love  of  dress.  I  will  make  an  ape  of  him, 
and  as  an  ape  he  shall  delight  in  himself,  and  become  a 
laughing-stock  to  his  neighbor." 

"  That's  it,"  cried  the  grandam,  delighted,  her  ugly 
cat's  eyes  turning  greener  and  greener.  "  Your  former 
plans  were  all  very  useful  in  their  way,  but  they  lacked 
one  thing — they  were  not  nearly  simple-seeming  enough 
really  to  beguile  him.  For,  however  evil  of  desire,  how- 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  65 

ever  self-willed  and  perverse  man  might  become,  he 
would  always  have  a  feeling  left  that  something  was 
wrong  ;  there  is  such  a  thing  as  conscience,  remember, 
putting  most  men  on  their  guard  as  regards  great  wicked- 
ness. Nor  is  there  any  saying  what  the  Lord  God  in 
His  infinite  love  for  human  souls  may  not  devise  towards 
keeping  them  straight. 

"Vanity,  however,  is  quite  another  thing,  and  love  of 
dress  how  harmless  !  A  most  precious  invention  of  yours 
my  boy.  Vanity,  I  declare,  will  become  great  upon  earth; 
it  looks  so  innocent,  no  one  will  suspect  it.  Poor  things, 
why  should  they  not  amuse  themselves  with  their  look- 
ing-glasses and  their  faddles?  What  more  excusable 
than  to  spend  the  time  in  adorning  oneself— in  trying  to 
look  pretty  and  appear  amiable  in  society  ?  Yes,  men 
will  all  yield  to  vanity,  for  they  will  not  suspect  it. 
Vanity  shall  be  the  door  through  which  all  other  wicked- 
ness, evil  desire,  self-love  and  perversity,  will  find  a 
ready  entrance  ;  vanity,  I  say,  seemingly  harmless,  will 
take  them  to  hell.  True,  the  Lord  God  still  is  able  to  do 
what  He  pleases;  we  must  not  forget  that.  But  I  am  not 
an  old  woman  for  nothing,  and  have  known  a  few  things 
in  my  time.  I  cannot  see  for  the  life  of  me  how  God 
should  care  to  stop  any  fool  who,  with  the  happiest  con- 
science imaginable,  and  delighting  in  his  well-dressed 
appearance,  goes  trotting  complacently  to  hell." 

The  old  she-fiend  had  become  quite  excited  ;  she 
shook  herself,  and  her  skin,  wrinkled  and  loose  with  age, 
hung  about  her  as  the  skin  of  a  snake. 

"  I  am  proud  of  you,  my  boy,  and  I  will  help  you," 
she  continued.  "  It's  about  the  time  that  I  should  cast 
my  skin,  and  it  is  just  the  thing  you  want.  I  will  make 
it  appear  very  lovely,  as,  after  all,  is  but  natural,  since  it 
is  part  of  my  very  own  nature  ;  it  shall  be  varied  and 
many  colored,  and  every  fool  shall  delight  in  it.  It  will 
remain  with  you  to  make  them  accept  it,  but  that  will  be 
easy,  with  their  ajDish  predilection  for  anything  new  and 
startling — you'll  see  the  consequences,  diavolino.  They'll 
worship  a  new  goddess,  fashion  by  name  ; 'they'll  believe 
her  the  most  harmless  of  idols,  and  they'll  never  suspect 
— -ha  !  ha  ! — that  it  is  nothing  more  or  less  than 
my  cast-off  skin  !  Fashion  will  be  the  prop  of  vanity, 
and  men  will  fritter  away  their  life  in  hollow  pursuit. 


66  LETTERS    FROM     ftELL. 

The  ape  in  man  will  have  the  upper  hand,  and  the 
novelty  of  fashion  will  be  endless.  But  now  give  me  a 
hand,  and  I  will  forthwith  cast  my  skin.  I  am  quite  stiff 
for  want  of  exercise." 

Lucifer  was  delighted.  "Per  baccho"  he  cried,  "  it's 
a  bright  idea  !  " 

And,  catching  up  the  old  grandmother,  he  danced 
about  with  her  wildly,  to  the  wonderment  of  hell.  And 
the  devil's  grandam  was  beside  herself  with  laughter, 
bursting  almost  with  merriment. 

"  They'll  worship  my  skin,  diavolino"  she  cried ; 
"  they'll  worship  my  skin  !  " 


LETTER    VIII. 

IT  may  surprise  you  to  hear  me  speak  of  books  in 
hell,  but  you  will  soon  perceive  the  fitness  of  things,  it 
being  neither  more  nor  less  than  this:  whatever  is  bad 
must  come  to  hell,  so  of  printed  matter  whatever  is 
morally  evil  or  arrogantly  stupid  tends  hitherwards  the 
books  arriving  first,  the  authors  following,  and  their  pub- 
lishers along  with  them.  You  will  understand  then  that 
we  are  well  off  for  literature,  of  a  certain  description, 
that  is  to  say. 

Polite  literature  for  instance  has  provided  us  with 
countless  novels,  very  popular,  if  trashy  and  sometimes 
immodest.  There  is  no  civilized  nation  or  country  that 
has  not  produced  its  share,  varying  in  quantity  or  quality. 
They  seem  represented  by  two  species  chiefly — one  can 
hardly  call  them  schools — the  purely  sensational  and  the 
sensationally  impure;  the  former  being  content  to  hint 
where  the  latter  touch  boldly,  the  former  often  supremely 
worthless,  where  the  latter  are  wickedly  ingenious. 
Many  authors,  and  especially  some  authoresses,  appear 
to  find  their  life's  duty  in  pandering  to  depraved  taste, 
or  worse,  in  fostering  it.  I  might  mention  names,  but  I 
refrain.  Only  let  me  assure  these  experts  of  the  pen, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  that  they  are  well  known  here. 
No  doubt  it  will  create  quite  a  flutter  in  their  bosoms, 
adding  not  a  little  to  their  sense  of  fame,  to  learn  that 
their  talent  is  so  extensively  appreciated,  and  that  their 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  67 

books  are  fashionable,  not  only  in  polite 'society  on  earth, 
but  even  in  hell !  There  is  this  drawback,  to  be  sure,  to 
damp  their  spirits,  that  for  the  present  they  must  be  sat- 
isfied with  mere  honor — pay  being  withheld  tjll  they 
themselves  join  their  circle  of  readers  here.  Then  their 
reward  shall  be  given  them  in  this  matter  also. 

This  branch  of  the  so-called  belles-lettres,  trashy  novels, 
is  greatly  in  vogue  upon  earth;  it  is  not  the  good  books 
which  chiefly  enrich  the  publishers,  or  authors  either. 
There  are  people  whose  intellectual  food  consists  in 
nothing  but  the  former;  but  the  soul  lives  not  that  could 
testify  to  mental  or  spiritual  growth  by  their  aid.  If  the 
use  of  such  books  is  null  on  earth,  what  must  it  be  here, 
where  not  even  the  miserable  object  remains  of  whiling 
away  the  time  ? 

But  to  proceed:  there  is  no  lack  here  even  of  theo- 
logical writings — especially  of  modern  commentaries, 
but  also  of  the  dogmatic  and  homiletical  kind.  To 
speak  plainly,  how  many  a  book  of  fine  sermons  or  of 
religious  comfort  arrives  here,  preceding  the  hireling 
shepherds  !  With  casuistry  too  we  are  thoroughly  pro- 
vided. The  Middle  Ages  are  represented  chiefly  by  a 
vast  amount  of  priestly  falsehood,  systematized  into  all 
sorts  of  fanatical  quibbles  and  sacerdotal  inventions  con- 
cerning the  deep  questions  of  religion.  The  more 
modern  school  may  be  said  to  have  reached  a  climax  in 
the  days  of  Voltaire  and  the  encyclopedists,  taking  a 
fresh  start  with  Kant  and  his  followers.  You  observe  I 
speak  broadly,  in  a  European  sense,  refraining  from  par- 
ticularizing or  quoting  nearer  home.  You  may  judge  for 
yourself,  and  be  sure  that  no  literary  means  are  wanting 
here  to  advance  the  interests  of  atheism.  For,  mind 
you,  even  in  hell  those  who  "  believe  and  tremble  "  may 
be  brought  to  a  worse  state.  For  the  rest,  since  I  never 
troubled  myself  about  theology,  either  as  a  science  or 
otherwise,  I  am  not  likely  to  study  it  here. 

Besides  this  so-called  true  theology,  there  are  found 
with  us  the  writings  of  those  puffed-up,  half-crazy 
fanatics, — the  false  prophets  of  every  degree,  who  make 
a  sort  of  trade  of  religion.  Their  literary  effusions  are 
generally  laughed  at,  even  here;  but  in  most  cases  the 
author  himself  arrives  before  long,  and  laughter  for  him 
turns  to  weeping.  These  curious  divines  have  a  special 


68  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

corner  assigned  to  them  in  this  place,  differing  greatly 
from  the  paradise  they  believed  themselves  heirs  of  in 
virtue  of  their  singular  calling. 

Philosophy  too  is  well  represented.  Philosophers  on 
the  whole  are  a  harmless  tribe.  Some  of  them  may  be 
groping  for  wisdom  which  includes  goodness  and  piety, 
and  others  are  merely  the  victims  of  some  peculiar 
mania  which  hurts  no  one.  We  get  the  writings  of  those 
only  whom  conceit  of  intellect  drives  to  the  front.  I 
might  quote  some  curious  instances,  showing  how,  within 
a  professor's  den,  some  ten  feet  square,  the  universe  may 
be  grasped,  the  mystery  of  life  solved,  eternity  gauged; 
in  fact,  how  the  ocean  of  the  infinite  may  be  got  into 
the  nutshell  of  a  finite  brain. 

In  passing  merely  I  mention  the  literature  of  the  law. 
If  I  ignored  it  altogether  it  might  be  taken  for  disrespect, 
and  I  am  sure  I  would  rather  not  offend  the  gentlemen 
of  the  robe.  Let  me  state  the  plain  fact :  I  reverence 
justice,  but  I  feel  doubtful  about  lawyers.  Did  not  some 
sharp-witted  urchin  make  the  discovery  that  the  devil  was 
a  "  lawyer  "  from  the  beginning  ?  I  would  rather  wash 
my  hands  of  them,  not  understanding  them  in  the  least. 

Last,  but  not  least,  I  turn  to  the  literary  geniuses  of 
the  reviewing  department,  at  the  risk  even  of  most  dread- 
fully offending  them.  No  reviewer,  I  presume,  would 
flatter  himself  with  the  conceit  that  his  dissertations 
could  have  any  but  the  most  ephemeral  value  ;  I  feel 
loth  to  disabuse  their  laudable  modesty,  but  I  am  bound 
to  let  them  know  that  some  do  live — live  in  hell !  I 
have  made  the  startling  discovery  that  of  reviews  not  a 
few  appear  to  be  written  in  ignorance,  or  inspired  by 
envy  and  even  downright  malice.  Reviewers  form  a 
species  apart,  not  nurtured  in  babyhood,  it  would  seem, 
with  the  milk  of  human  kindness.  I  was  assured  once 
that  in  order  to  review  a  book  properly,  one  had  need  to 
be  something  of  a  misanthrope — something  of  a  cynic  at 
any  rate,  since  barking  and  biting  seems  to  be  the  great 
delight.  Be  this  as  it  may,  I  have  always  maintained 
that  reviewers,  as  a  natural  curiosity,  may  be  divided 
into  two  classes — those  who  are  capable  of  passing  judg- 
ment, and  those  who  are  not.  The  former,  strange  to 
say,  cautiously,  and  indeed  rarely,  advance  their  criticism, 
and  nothing  of  theirs  is  ever  seen  here. 


LETTERS    FROM     :.    :,L.  69 

The  latter  may  be  subdivided  into  professionals  and 
amateurs.  The  first  of  these  who  trade,  as  it  were,  in 
the  reviewing  line,  will  have  to  plead  guilty  in  most  cases 
that  they  started  originally  with  an  aspiration  of  book- 
writing,  but  did  not  succeed.  They  have  never  got 
over  their  disappointment.  The  second  subdivision  con- 
sists chiefly — would  you  believe  it  ? — of  a  set  of  preco- 
cious youths,  as  clever  as  they  are  conceited,  requiring 
an  outlet  for  their  exuberance.  I  have  known  them  of 
the  age  of  twenty,  and  even  less,  feeling  grown-up  all  of 
a  sudden  by  means  of  their  first  review :  if  their  criticism 
was  somewhat  green,  there  was  audacity  to  cover  it. 
They  don't  mean  any  special  harm,  but  they  do  feel 
themselves  seated  on  a  throne,  duly  hidden  of  course, 
and  snubbing  authors — their  grandfathers  in  age  and 
experience. 

By  dint  of  numerous  reviews,  then,  we  are  kept  au 
courant  with  the  events  of  the  book-market.  Whenever 
a  specially  mordant  piece  of  criticism  arrives  here  we 
know  that  it  has  been  called  forth  by  a  publication 
which  is  probably  good  and  certainly  harmless.  It  is 
the  caricature  only  which  reaches  us  ;  but  it  is  so,  alas, 
with  most  things  ! 

As  for  newspapers  ? — it  stands  to  reason  that  much  of 
the  daily  food  provided  in  these  quarters  cannot  fare 
any  better,  since  ambition  of  gain,  private  or  public, 
unblushingly  presides  at  the  board.  How  many  a  jour- 
nal has  but  the  one  object  in  view — the  making  of  money  ? 
How  many  others  have  actually  sold  themselves  to  further 
the  paltry  interests  of  this  or  that  party,  not  caring  in 
the  least,'  in  their  hardened  consciences,  how  far  astray 
they  lead  the  public  mind? 

And  what  shall  I  say  of  the  appalling  amount  of 
despatches,  notes,  and  official  memoranda  interchanged 
between  the  various  Cabinets  for  no  other  reason,  it 
would  seem,  but  that  of  misleading? — specimens  of 
ambiguous  phraseology,  ever  appealing  to  truth  and 
justice,  but  heeding  neither  truth  nor  justice  wherever  a 
chance  of  gain  or  even  the  interests  of  vulgar  passion 
come  to  the  front.  This  sort  of  political  documents  are 
rarely  got  hold  of  by  newspapers  even  ;  on  earth  they 
are  of  the  things  that  walk  in  secret,  but  they  fail  not  to 
furnish  us  down  here  with  many  a  curious  explanation  of 


yo  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

historic  events.  I  have  come  to  suspect  that  nothing  is 
more  outrageously  false,  and  cruel,  and  opposed  to  every 
will  of  God,  than  what  goes  by  the  name  of  higher 
politics. 

You  see  from  this  sketch  that  we  are  not  at  a  loss  for 
reading,  but  you  will  also  perceive  that  the  vile  produc- 
tions reaching  us  can  nowise  tend  to  edify  or  even  really 
instruct  us.  If  they  enable  us  to  follow  events  in  the 
world,  it  is  by  a  kind  of  inverted  effect,  suggesting  in  fact 
the  very  opposite  of  what  they  assert.  There  is  here  no 
pleasure  in  reading ;  on  the  contrary,  the  more  one 
peruses,  the  more  one  sipkens;  but  nauseated  though  we 
feel,  we  are  unable  to  get  out  of  the  intellectual  slough, 
the  mire  of  a  lying  literature. 

I  never  imagined  while  living  on  earth  that  I  had  need 
to  render  thanks  for  anything;  that  health,  riches,  happy 
days,  were  gifts  to  be  grateful  for,  but  rather  accepted 
them  as  the  natural  appurtenances  of  my  existence;  and 
if  I  thought  about  them  at  all,  it  was  only  to  wish  for 
more,  for  I  was  never  satisfied  with  life  as  I  found  it, 
nor  with  the  world  I  lived  in.  Now  I  view  things  differ- 
ently ;  I  see  now  that  the  gifts  of  life  are  blessings 
unspeakable,  and  all  the  greater  for  being  entirely  unde- 
served. On  looking  back — and  I  am  ever  looking  back 
now,  there  being  nothing  before  me  save  one  thing, 
awful  and  horrible,  the  judgment  to  come — on  looking 
back,  I  say,  I  am  bound  to  confess  that  the  blessings  of 
a  single  day  of  life  on  earth  are  innumerable  as  the  stars. 
How  rich  is  life  !  There  may  be  misery  and  trouble  on 
earth — and  I  believed  I  had  my  full  share  of  both — but 
it  has  all  dwindled  to  nothing  since  I  have  come  to  know 
the  wretchedness  of  hell.  Let  me  assure  you  out  of  my 
own  dire  experience  that  the  most  suffering  creature  on 
earth  has  much  to  be  thankful  for.  Man's  life,  whatever 
it  be,  should  bring  him  to  his  knees  daily.  And  if  you 
have  nothing  left  of  earth's  blessing  but  air  and  light, 
and  a  piece  of  bread  to  satisfy  your  hunger,  you  have 
need  to  give  thanks.  I  see  it  now,  but  for  me  it  is  too 
late.  In  hell  there  is  nothing — absolutely  nothing  to  be 
thankful  for;  you,  however,  whose  sun  has  not  yet  set, 
may  still  learn  to  yield  your  hearts  in  gratitude.  Ah, 
hear  me,  I  beseech  you;  there  is  no  help  for  me,  but 
help  may  come  to  you  ! 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  71 

I  have  told  you,  my  friend,  how  continuously  I  am  the 
prey  of  memories,  but  how  much  so — to  what  extent,  I 
mean — you  little  guess.  That  deeds  of  iniquity  and 
particular  sins  should  assail  me,  tormenting  the  soul  as 
with  fire,  is  natural.  But  this  is  not  all.  There  are 
other  things,  counted  for  little  in  the  world,  which  cling 
to  conscience  with  a  terrible  vividness.  Every  little 
falsehood  and  unjust  dealing,  every  word  of  deceit  and 
breach  of  fealty,  every  evil  example  and  want  of  kind- 
ness,— they  are  all,  all  present  now,  piercing  the  heart  as 
with  daggers  of  regret.  I  thought  so  little  of  these 
things  in  life,  that  I  scarcely  stopped  to  consider  them; 
they  seemed  buried  on  the  spot,  every  year  adding  its 
own  share  to  the  moldering  heap.  They  have  risen 
now  and  stand  about  me,  I  see  them  and  I  tremble. 

I  was  just  thinking  of  an  example,  out  of  hundreds 
which  press  round  me.  I  take  one  at  random.  I  have 
felt  haunted  lately  by  the  sorrowful  eyes  of  a  poor  little 
street  boy.  Wherever  I  turn  I  see  him,  or  rather  not  so 
much  him  as  his  tearful  troubled  gaze,  rising  in  judg- 
ment against  me.  It  has  all  come  back  to  my  mind  how 
one  evening  I  sauntered  about  in  the  park,  a  poor  little 
beggar  running  alongside,  pressing  me  to  buy  a  half- 
penny worth  of  matches.  I  did  not  want  them,  and  told 
him  so,  but  he  persisted  in  crying,  "  Only  a  ha'penny, 
sir — only  a  ha'penny."  He  annoyed  me,  and,  taking 
him  by  the  arm,  I  rudely  pushed  him  away.  I  did  not 
mean  to  hurt  him,  although,  to  tell  the  truth,  there  was 
not  a  particle  of  kindness  in  me  at  the  time.  Nor  lay 
the  wrong  in  not  buying  his  matches;  I  was  quite  at 
liberty  to  refuse,  had  I  denied  him  kindly.  But  he 
annoyed  me  and  I  was  angry.  The  child,  flung  aside 
roughly,  fell  in  the  road;  I  heard  a  cry;  perhaps  he  had 
hurt  himself — perhaps  it  was  only  grief  for  his  matches 
lying  about  in  the  mud.  I  turned  and  met  a  look  from 
his  eyes,  fulA  of  trouble  and  silent  accusation.  It  would 
have  been  so  easy  for  me  to  make  good  my  thoughtless- 
ness, so  little  would  have  comforted  the  child,  but  I 
walked  away  heedless  of  his  grief. 

Now  few  people  would  call  that  downright  wicked- 
ness— few  people  in  the  world  I  mean;  but  here,  unfortu- 
nately, we  are  forced  to  judge  differently.  Years  and 
years  have  passed  since,  for  I  was  a  young  man  at  the 


72  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

time,  but  the  memory  of  that  child  has  returned  upon 
me,  his  look  of  sorrowful  reproof  adding  to  the  pangs  of 
hell.  It  is  but  an  example,  as  I  said,  and  there  are  many 
— many  ! 

But  not  mere  deeds — every  word  of  evil  carelessly 
spoken  in  the  days  of  earthly  life  comes  back  to  me  with 
similar  force.  As  poisoned  arrows  such  words  once 
quitted  my  lips  :  as  poisoned  arrows  they  come  back  to 
me,  piercing  the  heart.  Oh  consider  it  while  living  voice 
is  yours,  and  speak  not  lightly  !  There  is  no  saying 
what  harvest  of  sin  may  spring  from  a  single  word. 
And  if  pity  for  others  will  not  restrain  you,  be  advised 
by  pity  for  your  own  selves,  since  requital  will  come  to 
yourselves  only  in  the  end. 

And  not  merely  deeds  and  words,  but  every  harmful 
thought  recurs  to  me,  to  gnaw  away  at  my  heart.  There 
is  a  saying  with  certain  philosophers  in  the  world  that 
nothing  ever  is  lost.  If  this  be  true  in  the  material 
world,  how  much  more  so  is  it  in  spiritual  things — ah, 
terrible  truth  ! 

And  further,  apart  from  the  evil  done,  it  is  the  good 
left  undone,  the  opportunities  wasted,  which  stand 
around  me  with  pitiless  scourge,  and  their  name  is 
legion  !  Thus  everything,  you  see,  both  what  I  have 
done  and  left  undone,  comes  to  life  here  in  this  place  of 
woe, — takes  shape,  I  ought  to  say, — rising  in  accusation 
against  me.  I  try  to  escape,  but  they  are  about  me 
everywhere,  those  shapes  of  terror,  enough  to  people  a 
world  with  despair  ;  they  persecute  me,  they  torture  me, 
and  I  am  their  helpless  prey.  Memories  of  the  good 
left  undone — alas,  they  are  far  more  bitter  than  those  of 
the  evil  done  !  For  temptation  to  do  wrong  often  was 
great,  and  in  my  own  strength  I  failed  to  conquer ;  but 
to  do  good  for  the  most  part  would  have  cost  little,  if 
any,  effort.  I  see  it  now  with  the  new  insight  into  life 
which  hell  gives.  The  man  lives  not  wh^>  is  excused 
from  leaving  good  undone  ;  however  poor  and  humbly 
situated  he  may  be,  opportunity  is  ever  at  his  door.  It 
is  for  him  only  to  open  his  heart  and  take  in  the  oppor- 
tunity ;  for  his  own  heart  is  a  well  of  power  and  of 
blessing  to  boot.  He  who  is  the  fountain  of  love  and 
purity,  from  whom  every  good  and  perfect  gift  cometh, 
has  wondrously  arranged  it,  that  in  this  respect  there  is 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  73 

but  little  difference  between  the  rich  and  the  poor,  the 
gentle  and  the  simple.  Let  me  conjure  you  then, 
brothers  and  sisters,  listen  to  the  voice  of  your  heart 
while  yet  it  is  day  !  Listen,  I  say,  and  obey,  lest  the 
bitterness  of  repentance  overtake  you  with  the  night, 
when  no  man  can  work  !  Ah,  let  no  opportunity  for  the 
doing  of  good  escape  you,  for  it  will  rise  against  you 
when  nothing  is  left  but  to  wail  in  anguish. 

I  do  not  address  these  words  to  those  who  have  grown 
pitiless  as  flint — none  but  God  could  touch  them  ;  but 
there  are  well-disposed  hearts,  which  a  ray  of  light  may 
help  to  expand.  I  was  not  hard-hearted  while  I  lived  in 
the  world  ;  on  the  contrary,  I  could  for  the  most  part 
easily  be  moved  to  charity,  if  some  one  took  the  trouble 
to  remind  me.  What  ruined  me  was  that  boundless  love 
of  self  which  prevented  my  seeing  the  wants  of  others  ; 
or  if  I  did  see  them,  I  did  not  stop  to  consider  them.  I 
receive  now  the  reward  of  my  deeds.  Would  that  this 
fearful  experience  of  mine  could  work  a  change  in  you  ; 
that  might  somewhat  assuage  my  deepest  sufferings  ! 
But  even  in  that  much  of  mercy  I  cannot  believe  ;  the 
soul  in  torment  can  doubt  only — doubt  eternally. 

I  cannot  but  give  you  another  example.  I  remember 
a  poor  family  living  in  a  miserable  cottage  not  far  from 
the  lordly  dwelling  I  inhabited.  As  often  as  I  passed 
that  way  I  looked  through  the  lowly  window,  for  a  bald 
head  moving  to  and  fro  in  measured  intervals  attracted 
my  notice.  It  was  long,  however,  before  I  saw  the  face. 
The  father  of  a  numerous  family  would  sit  there  in  ill- 
health,  gaining  a  humble  livelihood.  It  appeared  to  be 
not  necessity  alone,  but  delight  in  his  work  also,  which 
kept  him  up  He  was  a  wood-carver  of  no  mean 
capacity,  and  worked  for  a  wholesale  house  of  children's 
playthings  in  the  city.  Strange  to  say,  he  was  particu- 
larly clever  in  producing  all  sorts  of  ravenous  beasts — 
he,  who  looked  a  personification  of  meekest  mildness. 
Lions,  wolves,  *nd  tigers  graced  his  window-sill,  he  bear- 
ing trouble  as  a  patient  lamb.  I  said  he  was  sickly,  and 
the  family  was  large.  The  wife  took  in  washing ;  and 
they  helped  one  another  each  trying  to  ease  the  other's 
load. 

But  misfortune  overtook  them ;  the  wholesale  business 
failed  ;  the  poor  man  lost  his  livelihood.  The  bald  head 


74  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

no  longer  appeared  by  the  window — the  cottage  looked 
a  grave.  What  had  become  of  him  ?  I  once  asked 
myself  the  question  and  stopped  there,  for  you  know 
self  scarcely  left  me  time  to  trouble  myself  with  other 
people's  affairs. 

Still,  opportunity  thrust  itself  in  my  way.  I  saw  him 
again — not  merely  his  bald  head,  but  himself.  The  poor 
man,  bowed  down  with  ill-health,  and  unused  to  hard 
labor,  stood  working  in  a  brickfield  with  trembling  knees. 

I  could  not  but  pity  him.  I  knew  he  was  working 
himself  to  death,  trying  to  gain  food  for  his  little  ones. 
Indeed,  he  was  in  as  imminent  danger  of  life  as  if  all  the 
lions,  wolves,  and  tigers  whose  images  he  had  carved 
had  gathered  round  to  destroy  him.  I  witnessed  a  touch- 
ing scene  one  day.  Passing  about  noon  I  saw  the  wife 
there,  who  had  come  with  her  husband's  dinner — a  dinner 
I  would  not  have  looked  at.  I  saw  how  tenderly  she 
wiped  the  weary  forehead,  how  the  children— for  they 
all  had  come — clung  to  the  father,  the  youngest  climbing 
his  knees,  and  how  grateful  he  was  for  their  affection, 
which  roused  him  to  new  endeavors  to  gain  a  miserable 
pittance. 

The  sight  really  moved  me ;  and  I  walked  away, 
thinking  I  ought  to  do  something  for  the  struggling 
family.  It  was  easy  for  me  to  find  some  post  for  the 
man  which,  while  requiring  no  hard  work  at  his  hands, 
would  keep  them  all  in  comfort.  I  certainly  would  see 
to  it,  but  was  called  away  on  business;  other  things 
occupied  my  mind,  and  I  forgot  all  about  it.  I  did 
remember  it  again  after  a  while,  but  then  it  was  too  late. 
The  man  had  succumbed — the  family  was  ruined. 

But  there  are  worse  furies  than  these  persecuting  souls 
in  torment.  I  cannot  tell  whether  it  is  by  imagination 
only,  assisting  what,  for  want  of  a  better  word,  I  must 
call  the  jugglery  of  hell,  or  whether  this  place  of  damna- 
tion has  its  own  actual  second  sight,  but  it  is  a  fact  that 
sometimes  I  can  see  the  entire  growth  of  evil,  spreading 
over  years  perhaps,  and  involving  soul  after  soul,  origin- 
ating in  some  careless  word  of  mine  which  proved  to 
be  the  seed.  I  turn  away;  but  I  am  driven  to  look  again 
and  again  at  the  terrible  consequences,  and  words  can- 
not express  what  I  feel. 

It  is  appalling  to  think  of  the  endless  chain  of  sin  and 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  75 

misery  to  which  a  single  act,  ay,  a  word  even,  may  give 
rise.  A  chain,  I  say,  for  it  is  a  frightful  truth  that  the 
evil  effect  does  not  always  spring  from  the  seed  as  a 
single  stupendous  birth,  to  live  and  die  for  itself ;  but 
there  is  a  demon  power  inherent  in  it  of  begetting  and 
conceiving,  wrong  bringing  forth  wrong  in  endless  suc- 
cession. It  is  by  its  consequences,  its  capability  of 
engulfing  others,  that  the  worst  potency  of  sin  becomes 
apparent. 

It  is  of  direct  evil  example,  too,  I  would  speak  ;  how 
fearful  is  its  power — how  far-reaching  its  influence  ! 
Whatever  wickedness  a  man  may  commit  in  the  world, 
what  is  it  as  compared  with  the  wrong  he  may  be  guilty 
of  by  his  example  ?  Then  sin  is  as  a  mountain  torrent, 
bursting  its  banks  and  carrying  the  unwary  headlong  to 
destruction.  You  may  be  dead  yourself,  yet  your  sin 
may  live,  yielding  a  terrible  harvest. 

It  was  in  this  respect  that  the  demon  ruling  my  life 
did  its  worst ;  I  went  my  sinful  course,  flinging  evil  seed 
about  me,  and  stopped  not  to  consider  how  many  I 
might  bring  to  ruin. 

Do  you  understand  ?  Perhaps  not  fully.  Let  me 
return  to  memories. 

I  happened  once  to  spend  an  evening  with  some  dozen 
youths  gathered  for  social  intercourse.  I  was  much 
older,  and  it  was  quite  by  accident  that  I  found  myself 
among  them ;  but,  enjoying  the  reputation  of  a  boon 
companion,  they  entreated  me  to  remain.  It  flattered  me 
and  I  stayed.  They  evidently  looked  to  me  for  informa- 
tion, which  made  me  all  the  more  willing  to  show  off  my 
superior  experience.  Being  a  witty  talker,  I  added  not  a 
little  to  the  evening's  enjoyment.  We  made  little 
speeches,  sang,  and  drank  to  each  other.  Now  I  knew 
that  these  young  people  would  take  as  gospel  truth 
almost  anything  I  might  tell  them,  believing  any  worldly 
wisdom  I  might  point  to  as  the  road  to  success.  The 
concluding  word  was  given  to  me.  I  rose,  ready  to  give 
them  the  benefit  of  my  knowledge.  "  Dare  to  be  happy!  " 
was  the  motto  I  chose.  I  reminded  them  of  the  position 
I  enjoyed  in  the  world,  averring  that  my  life  was  brimful 
of  satisfaction  ;  that  I  had  always  had  whatever  man 
could  wish  for,  and  that  I  had  had  it  because  I  had  dared. 
It  was  true  in  all  things  that  faint  heart  never  won  fair 


76  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

lady ;  there  was  a  treasure  of  wisdom  in  these  words 
beyond  the  treasures  of  Solomon.  They  were  just  enter- 
ing upon  life.  I  could  give  them  no  better  advice  to  go 
by — no  better  aim  to  follow — than  was  expressed  by 
these  words  :  "  Dare  it — dare  be  happy  !  " 

They  thanked  me  with  cheers  of  enthusiasm.  They 
were  flushed  .with  wine,  but  another  spirit  than  that  of 
wine  lay  hidden  in  my  words ;  its  subtle  influence  was 
even  then  upon  them,  intoxicating  their  souls.  With 
some  of  them  its  fumes,  no  doubt,  passed  away  with  the 
fumes  of  the  liquor  ;  but  with  others — three  or  four  of 
them — the  false  maxim  had  caught ;  they  went  out  into 
opening  life  armed  with  a  rule  which  consisted  of  false- 
hood mostly,  and  a  particle  of  truth.  It  took  them  to 
the  broad  way,  and  not  only  them,  but  others  through 
them.  That  lying  principle,  which  sounded  so  grand 
and  true,  spread  in  widening  circles,  ruining  soul  after 
soul ;  it  is  still  spreading,  alas !  and  I  see  no  end  to  the 
pernicious  influence. 

There  is  another  recollection  burning  as  molten  lead 
upon  my  soul.  I  had  been  visiting  friends  in  the  country, 
and  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  to  return  to  town.  The 
carriage  was  at  the  door,  and  I  down-stairs  already,  when 
I  remembered  having  forgotten  something  in  my  room. 
I  bounced  up  the  stairs  and  came  upon  a  little  house- 
maid tidying  the  apartment.  She  was  young  and  beauti- 
ful as  Hebe  ;  barely  eighteen  she  looked.  What  shall  I 
say  ?  Temptation  was  strong  ;  I  took  her  into  my  arms 
and  kissed  her.  She  tore  herself  away,  the  flushes  of 
shame  in  her  face,  crying  :  "  I  am  a  poor  girl,  sir,  but  I 
am  honest !  "  "  Poor,  my  child  ?  "  I  said.  "  With  a  face 
and  figure  like  yours  one  is  never  poor ;  you  might  buy 
the  heart  of  a  millionaire  !  Beauty  is  a  wealth  of  capital 
if  well  laid  out," 

They  were  the  words  of  the  moment — one  of  those 
silly  speeches  which  fast  men  abound  in. 

The  girl  was  silent,  blushing  still;  but  I  continued: 

"And  now,  my  fair  one,  you  shall  give  me  another 
kiss,  of  your  own  free  will,  to  reward  me  for  the  useful 
lesson  I  have  taught  you.  I  dare  say  we  shall  never 
meet  again." 

She  still  resisted.  But  I  was  young  and  handsome, 
and  thoroughly  versed  in  the  arts  of  persuasion.  1 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  77 

presently  held  her  in  my  arms  again,  and  she  did  kiss 
me.  The  girl  was  quite  in  my  power.  I  knew  it,  but 
opportunity  was  not  mine  ;  I  heard  the  horses  pawing, 
and  there  was  the  train  to  be  caught.  So  I  loosened  my 
hold,  and  as  though  beauty  were  indeed  the  capital  I 
had  spoken  of,  bringing  riches  to  the  owner,  I  put  a 
sovereign  into  her  hand. 

I  saw  no  particular  harm  in  what  I  had  done. 
Thousands  in  my  place,  no  doubt,  would  have  said  and 
done  as  I  did.  But  in  truth  I  was  guilty  of  an  awful 
thing  !  I  had  poisoned  the  very  life-blood  of  the  girl. 
Her  innocence  was  gone;  corruption  had  taken  root  in 
her  soul.  My  spirit  somehow  has  a  knowledge  of  her 
future  career.  She  had  been  engaged  to  an  honest 
working  man;  but  her  beauty,  if  she  married  him,  would 
not  bear  the  interest  she  now  coveted,  so  she  broke  with 
him.  He  had  loved  her,  and  hardly,  if  ever,  got  over 
the  blow.  She  went  her  way  putting  out  her  capital, 
laying  traps  to  the  right  and  to  the  left;  but  cleverly  as 
she  laid  them,  she  after  all  was  caught  herself,  falling  a 
victim  where  she  had  hoped  to  conquer,  and  was  flung 
aside  again.  She  was  ruined,  but  the  horrible  lesson  I 
had  left  with  her  was  nowise  rendered  harmless;  on  the 
contrary,  she  improved  it  all  the  more.  As  a  courtesan 
she  continued  her  career,  and  soon  there  was  none  more 
knowing,  none  more  dangerous,  than  she.  One  fool 
after  another  went  the  way  to  her  house  to  his  soul's 
ruin,  and  her  capital  laid  out  bore  interest  vastly,  being 
the  fruit  of  that  first  sovereign  I  had  given  her !  But 
rich  she  grew  not;  the  money  went  as  it  came,  squandered 
recklessly.  And  before  she  dreamt  of  it,  the  capital 
itself  was  gone  ;  she  struggled  awhile,  sinking  deeper 
and  deeper,  and  died  in  utter  misery.  But  even  that  is 
not  all.  The  lesson  I  had  taught  her  proved  not  only  a 
poison  to  herself,  but  with  it  she  poisoned  others,  teach- 
ing scores  of  girls  the  pernicious  lie:  Beauty  is  a  capital; 
lay  it  out !  lay  it  out ! 

Thus  it  went  with  her  with  whom  in  life  I  had  but  a 
moment's  intercourse,  whose  name  even  I  never  knew  ! 
What  shall  I  say  then  of  many  others;  what  of  Annie, 
against  whom  I  sinned  far  more  grievously  ?  Strange 
that  the  spirit  knowledge,  which  tells  me  so  much,  is 
entirely  at  fault  whenever  I  think  of  her.  But  it  is  a 


78  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

blessing  !  What  if  she  too  were  to  rise  before  me  cry- 
ing :  Thou  didst  it !  thou  didst  it ! 

The  force  of  example — I  repeat  it — is  terrible,  terrible  ! 
and  the  responsibility  of  all,  therefore,  is  great  with 
whom  influence  rests  in  a  special  way,  as  it  does  with 
those,  for  instance,  to  whom  the  young  are  taught  to 
look.  That  is  why  there  are  so  many  here  who  had 
charge  of  children — parents,  guardians,  teachers,  nurses 
innumerable.  They  go  to  hell  first,  of  course  they  do; 
but  they  are  followed  by  many  of  those  whom  they 
should  have  taught  the  way  of  life.  And  not  only  are 
they  followed  by  them,  but  by  their  children  after  them, 
generation  rising  against  generation  in  awful  accusation. 
I  am  one  of  the  worst  of  those  who  dare  not  lift  their 
head,  so  I  may  well  speak  in  warning  !  I  know  what 
awaits  me.  I  am  thinking  of  Martin.  Poor  boy,  it 
was  I  who  brought  him  up,  feeding  him  upon  evil 
example.  I  have  made  him  what  he  is.  But  what  has 
become  of  him,  and  what  will  become  of  his  children  ? 
I  had  no  family  in  life — alas,  I  may  have  one  in  hell, 
larger  than  I  care  to  see — the  children  of  my  iniquity  ! 
But  there  is  hope  for  Martin;  he  is  yet  in  life.  May  the 
Lord  have  mercy  on  him — on  him  and  his  ! 

How  I  loved  him  in  spite  of  his  waywardness  !  Per- 
haps it  was  self-love  after  all ;  perhaps  I  loved  him  only 
inasmuch  as  he  seemed  to  reflect  myself.  Yet  there  was 
power  in  that  love,  in  spite  of  supervening  jealousy.  He 
grew  more  handsome,  more  taking  than  even  I  had  been, 
ousting  me  by  degrees  out  of  my  every  pride  ;  but 
jealous  though  I  felt,  I  yet  loved  him.  And  the  time 
came  when  he  was  master.  I  remember  well  how  one 
day  I  was  humbled  by  the  sudden  consciousness  of  it. 
I  had  been  specially  careful  of  his  bodily  development, 
seeing  to  it  myself ;  his  mental  training  I  left  to  others. 
I  taught  him  gymnastics  and  all  sorts  of  manly  exer- 
cises, in  which  I  excelled — fencing,  wrestling,  and  the  like. 
He  was  tall  and  powerful,  and  exquisitely  proportioned. 
Barely  twenty,  he  resembled  some  athlete  of  antiquity. 
We  practiced  daily,  and  I  found  that  he  gained  as 
steadily  as  I  lost  ;  there  was  a  time  at  last  when  with 
difficulty  I  could  hold  my  own.  And  then  it  came — I 
could  never  speak  of  it  calmly — that  he  floored  me, 
standing  over  me,  a  very  Hercules  of  strength.  From 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  79 

that  day  I  knew  that  he  had  the  ascendancy  over  me. 
It  was  natural,  for  I  had  passed  the  zenith — he  was 
approaching  it ;  but  it  was  mortifying,  and  I  could  not 
forgive  it.  And  yet,  with  strange  inconsistency,  I  was 
proud  of  him,  loving  him  all  the  more  fondly. 

My  grudge  against  him,  however,  took  a  more  real 
turn  when  I  found  that  he  outdid  me  in  the  favor  of 
woman  as  well.  That  was  more  than  even  my  fondest 
love  could  stand. 

Will  he  join  me  here  ?  The  beating  of  my  heart 
seems  to  say  yes  ;  for  he  belongs  to  me,  and  I  am  here. 
Then  I  shall  find  an  answer  to  that  burning  question 
which  filled  my  soul  as  I  quitted  life,  and  which  burns 
with  a  fire  of  its  own  here  amid  many  fires.  But  ought 
I  to  wish  for  an  answer  ?  I  have  a  frightful  foreboding 
at  times  that  the  answer  my  soul  is  craving  will  over- 
whelm me  with  horror.  But,  nevertheless,  and  though 
it  should  be  all  horrors  combined  in  one,  I  am  hungering 
and  thirsting  for  it,  nor  can  I  rest  till  I  find  it.  What  is 
it  he  had  to  tell  me  ? 


LETTER   IX. 

How  frightful  is  the  deep  stillness  reigning  in  hell  among 
these  myriads  of  souls  !  I  thought  at  first  I  should  get 
used  to  it ;  but  there  is  no  getting  used  to  it.  It  is 
stifling  and  oppressive.  What  a  contrast  with  the  multi- 
farious hubbub  of  earth  !  Life  may  be  ever  so  excited 
here,  ever  so  restless,  it  is  dead  to  the  ear.  I  do'  not 
mean  to  say  that  words  passing  to  and  fro  are  devoid  of 
sound,  but  it  is  unearthly,  unclothed  of  its  body,  falling 
dead  on  the  spot ;  I  suspect  that,  like  most  things  here, 
it  is  imaginary,  unreal.  Probably  the  meaning  of  any- 
thing that  is  said  passes  to  the  hearer  without  the 
medium  of  sound  ;  he  seems  to  hear  with  outward  ears, 
but  that  is  illusion. 

Hell  is  filled  with  unruly  souls.  It  is  the  hurly-burly 
of  existence  they  need,  but  with  all  their  effort  they  can 
never  create  sound.  If  never  before  they  longed  for  a  dull 
repose  they  do  so  now,  yet  are  keenly  alive  to  its  utter 
hopelessness.  They  will  hunt  for  tumult  to  all  eternity, 


8o  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

never  hearing  the  sound  they  crave  :  they  also  have  their 
reward. 

As  light  increases,  so  does  the  uneasy  expectation  of 
my  heart.  I  tremble  for  the  hour  when  the  glory  from 
the  other  side  will  flash  across  the  gulf  and  strike  my 
blinded  eyes.  I  shall  have  to  see  it !  And  Paradise,  as 
seen  from  hell,  must  be  a  sight  most  dread  —  most  ter- 
rible—  piercing  the  heart.  Yet  I  long  for  it  —  I  groan 
for  it  —  though  the  glimpse  of  bliss  be  fraught  with 
exquisite  torment;  I  hunger  for  it — "Let  me  have  it," 
I  cry,  "though  it  should  kill  my  soul." 

Was  not  there  something  in  the  vanished  time  that  was 
called  the  Lord's  Prayer,  beginning,  "Our  Father,"  a 
well  of  blessing  to  those  who  opened  their  hearts  to  it  ? 
Surely  I  seem  to  remember,  but  vainly  I  try  to  call  back 
the  words  ;  they  seem  hovering  about  me  as  though  I 
need  but  say,  "  Our  Father,"  and  all  the  rest  must 
follow.  I  try  and  say  so,  but  never  get  beyond  ;  I  have 
sometimes  repeated  these  two  words  ten,  twenty  times, 
but  it  is  quite  hopeless  —  they  are  empty  and  meaning- 
less ;  I  have  lost  the  prayer  —  it  is  all  nothing  to  me. 
I  just  remember  that  there  is  a  father;  but  He  is  not  my 
Father,  and  I  am  not  His  child.  Yet  I  cannot  refrain 
from  racking  my  spirit  for  the  once  blessed  words;  surely 
they  are  somewhere — somewhere  !  My  soul  is  thirsting, 
and  there  is  not  a  drop  of  water  to  cool  my  tongue. 

I  return  to  the  horror  of  existence.  It  is  a  mercy  that 
after  all  one  can  choose  one's  society  here  ;  I  should  die 
if  I  were  obliged  to  know  all  the  vulgar  rabble  of 
common  ruffians,  thieves,  murderers,  card-sharpers,  and 
the  like.  I  have  always  been  a  gentleman.  Of  course  I 
am  aware  now  that  I  am  not  one  whit  better  than  those 
that  I  call  the  rabble, — the  only  difference  consisting  in 
a  little  outward  finish,  what  we  used  to  call  culture  on 
earth  •  and  to  be  sure  how  proud  we  were  of  it !  Our 
wickedness  may  be  as  great,  if  not  greater  than  theirs  ; 
but  it  is  not  so  coarse,  there  is  a  certain  refinement 
about  it,  which  flatters  our  notions  of  superiority.  I 
consider  myself  a  gentleman,  therefore,  as  I  always 
did,  and  am  very  careful  with  whom  I  associate.  The 
rabble  consists  of  the  vulgar  criminals  and  their  belong- 
ings ;  but  hell's  upper  ten  thousand  have  never  soiled 
their  hands  with  low  wickedness.  We  ruined  girls,  but 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  8 1 

kept  it  a  secret ;  we  grew  rich  upon  the  spoils  of  others, 
and  called  it  business  ;  we  were  proud,  hard-hearted, 
and  spoke  of  the  claims  of  rank  ;  we  may  have  been  liars 
and  cheats,  but  always  wore  kid-gloves  and  were  careful 
as  to  our  tailor  —  we  were  gentlefolk,  you  see.  The 
proverb  "  birds  of  a  feather  "  is  written  up  everywhere  in 
hell  —  we  follow  it  out  naturally  ;  people  here  have  an 
exquisitely  developed  instinct  that  helps  them  to  judge 
in  a  moment  of  those  they  meet,  aided — I  should  add — 
by  the  transparency  of  clothes.  It  is  of  course  not  quite 
easy  here  to  carry  out  such  principles,  still  society 
manages  very  generally  to  keep  itself  to  itself.  We 
eschew  vulgarity  and  turn  our  back  upon  anything  likely 
to  shock  our  notions  of  good-breeding. 

I  met  a  charming  young  woman  the  other  day  who 
was  received  in  the  best  circles  here.  Her  history  was 
known,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  shut  her  out  from  us. 
She  had  forsaken  her  widowed  mother,  nearly  blind 
though  she  was,  eloping  with  a  handsome  actor.  She 
died  suddenly,  carried  off  in  the  height  of  passion,  and 
very  naturally  found  herself  in  hell.  A  prey  to  the  cold 
which  we  all  experience,  she  was  afire  with  a  ceaseless 
longing  for  her  mother  on  the  one  hand,  whom  she  never 
will  meet  again,  and  for  her  lover  on  the  other  hand, 
whom  she  awaited  with  ardent  desire.  She  ought  not  to 
have  wished  for  a  reunion,  since  that  meant  dragging 
him  to  hell ;  but  her  love  being  what  it  was,  she  lived 
and  breathed  in  that  cruel  hope.  She  selfishly  longed 
for  him,  saying  they  had  sworn  to  live  and  die  together. 
But  he  could  not  have  been  equally  anxious  ;  at  any  rate 
he  kept  her  waiting  years  upon  years.  And  during  all 
this  time  her  infatuated  soul  beheld  him  as  she  had 
known  him  last,  handsome,  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  the 
darling  of  the  people.  At  length  he  arrives — a  decrepit 
man  on  crutches,  blear-eyed,  and  a  face  that  told  his  life. 
What  a  meeting  ! — she  starts  back  as  from  an  apparition. 
Can  that  be  the  lover  of  her  youth,  for  whom  she  sinned, 
for  whom  she  suffered  !  She  loathes  him,  but  she  is 
driven  to  pursue  him.  Society  here  is  well-bred,  and 
shrinks  from  what  ruffles  its  feelings.  She  was  a  charm- 
ing creature,  but  we  could  no  longer  tolerate  her.  One 
after  another  we  disowned  her,  and  she  disappeared  with 
her  former  lover. 


82  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

Let  me  add  that  one  of  the  greatest  evils  in  the  world 
is  a  superabundance  of  love.  Who  would  believe  that 
love  unrestrained  sends  more  souls  to  hell  than  almost 
anything  I  could  name  ?  It  is  not  the  love  which  is  pure 
and  health-giving,  for  it  is  not  fed  by  the  Love  Divine 
and  Eternal.  So  much  depends  on  what  one  loves  and 
how  one  loves  ! 

A  woman  arrived  here  some  time  ago,  no  longer 
young,  but  still  beautiful,  blue-eyed,  fair-haired,  and 
we  all  thought  her  charming.  She  was  amiability  itself  ; 
we  could  not  think  what  brought  her  to  hell  ;  indeed 
there  was  no  reason  for  it,  but  her  unchastened  love  for 
her  husband.  It  was  quite  touching  to  hear  how  she 
had  given  up  her  life  to  him,  loving  him  a  great  deal 
more  than  he  really  deserved.  She  idolized  him,  for- 
getting everything  for  him,  even  her  God.  That  was 
just  it ;  she  had  given  to  her  husband  the  heart's  adora- 
tion which  belongs  to  God  alone.  How  could  she  have 
been  happy  in  heaven  ?  But  her  love,  touching  as  at 
first  sight  it  would  appear,  was  after  all  nothing  but  a 
peculiar  development  of  selfishness,  and  that  is  why  it 
dragged  her  to  hell. ' 

And  in  hell  she  continues  sick  of  love  for  her  husband; 
it  was  the  one  longing  of  her  life,  so  it  needs  must  be  the 
all-absorbing  torment  of  hell.  And  she  had  her  desjre, 
she  saw  him  again  ;  he  arrived  one  day — with  a  heart 
full  of  another  passion.  He  had  never  been  faithful  to 
her.  Even  hell  pities  the  reward  that  is  given  her. 

You  have  long  ceased  to  doubt,  I  hope,  that  hell  offers 
anything  but  horror.  But  there  are  moments,  at  rare 
intervals  only,  when  all  the  thousand  horrors  within  us 
seemed  congealed  into  one  frightful  sensation  of  stupor. 
Do  not  imagine  it  is  a  painless  moment;  feeling  is 
swallowed  up  in  indescribable  anguish,  a  peculiar  horror, 
not  known  at  other  times.  And  then — it  is  always  sud- 
den— hell  stands  aghast,  trembling  with  dread.  All  pur- 
suit ceases ;  every  soul  is  left  to  itself,  shuddering. 
Something  is  upon  us — a  spirit-deadening  influence. 
It  is  not  seen,  but  we  are,  each  and  all,  aware  of  it  with 
indescribable  terror.  We  know  what  it  is  ;  we  stand 
tongue-tied  and  trernbLng.  Satan  has  come  to  survey 
the  souls  in  hell.  Final  power  is  not  yet  given  him  ;  for 
they  are  not  yet  judged.  But  he  has  learned  to  wait — 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  83 

satisfied,  meanwhile,  that  they  are  added  to  daily.  They 
are  his,  he  knows,  though  the  time  of  carrying  them  off  is 
delayed.  He  knows  the  doom  is  coming  when  the 
wicked,  for  ever  separated  from  the  good,  are  assigned 
their  place  on  the  left  of  the  Son  of  Man,  and  that  they 
will  be  his  then  forever  and  forever. 

How  often  in  the  young  days  of  life  I  seemed  full  of 
promise  to  become  good,  but  never  reached  the  true  aim 
of  Christianity.  Tht,  memories  I  have  brought  away  of 
these  half-strivings  are  fraught  with  bitterest  regret,  and 
yet  they  would  move  my  tenderest  tears, — if  tears  were 
left.  It  was  Lily  especially  who  in  those  days  was  the 
instrument  of  grace  divine.  From  the  first  it  was  given 
her,  that  wondrous  power  over  me.  Ah  !  say  not  it  was 
all  sinful  that  brought  me  to  her  feet !  No  ;  there  was 
something  higher,  giving  her  an  influence  over  my  soul 
— a  holy  influence.  All  children  I  believe  have  some- 
thing of  it;  but  Lily  was  filled  with  that  heavenly  grace. 

In  winter-time  after  dinner,  we  would  rest  awhile  in 
the  dusk,  the  firelight  casting. slumbrous  shadows  about 
the  room.  My  mother  would  doze  away  ;  Lily  and  I 
sat  dreaming.  But  how  different  were  the  spheres  to 
which  our  thoughts  would  roam  !  I  could  have  spent 
hours  watching  Lily  as  I  did  ;  she  sitting  on  a  low 
fender-stool,  the  light  falling  on  her.  I  was  in 
the  dark,  unnoticed  by  her,  which  added  to  my 
sense  of  enjoyment.  She  would  fold  her  hands  on  her 
knees,  as  she  loved  to  do  in  thoughtful  moments.  How 
beautiful  she  was,  in  that  half-light  especially — a  little 
pale,  but  spiritualized.  The  red  glow  was  reflected  in 
her  wonderful  eyes,  which  shone  marvelously.  Her 
features  seemed  transfigured  ;  she  would  sigh  at  times  or 
heave  a  deep  breath  ;  I  knew  then  that  she  was  occupied 
in  her  mind.  I  watched  her,  greedily  delighting  in  her 
perfect  beauty.  If  there  is  truth  in  what  people  say  of 
magnetism  and  sympathetic  attraction,  she  must  have 
felt  my  gaze.  Who  can  tell  ?  She  sometimes  really 
appeared  uneasy  ;  I  saw  from  my  corner  how  she  would 
try  to  shake  off  some  unconscious  influence.  I  could 
scarcely  refrain  then  from  snatching  her  up  and  pressing 
her  to  my  heart.  But  I  conauered  the  desire — it  would 
have  broken  the  charm. 


«4  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

But  sometimes  Lily  would  sit  down  by  me,  and  then 
we  passed  the  twilight  in  pleasant  talk;  she  never  denied 
me  her  confidence.  One  evening  I  asked  her  what  she 
was  thinking  of  in  those  quiet  moments  on  the  fender- 
stool. 

"What  I  am  thinking  of?"  she  repeated,  with  her 
gentle  voice.  "  Ah,  Philip,  thoughts  will  come  to  me  full 
of  longing,  sometimes  happy,  sometimes  sad.  I  fancy 
myself  carried  away  at  times  right  over  the  seas  to 
another  land  ;  even  to  other  worlds  my  thoughts  will 
rise — up,  up — beyond  the  stars.  I  seem  carried  away  to 
Louisiana,  that  beautiful  country,  where  everything  is  so 
different  from  here — richer,  grander  by  far,  and  where 
winter  is  not  known.  By  the  great  river  I  see  a  house 
with  a  shady  veranda  and  a  pillared  hall ;  trees  of  the 
South  grow  about  it  luxuriantly.  Here  I  was  born  ;  my 
earliest  recollections  twine  around  it.  Memory  carries 
me  now  through  the  lofty  rooms.  I  flit  from  one  chamber 
to  another ;  my  poor  parents  are  nowhere.  I  roam 
through  the  garden,  so  rich  in  delight,  through  the  cool 
groves  by  the  river  ;  but  I  am  a  stranger  everywhere, — 
no  one  remembers  the  little  girl.  I  see  black  men  and 
stop  to  speak  to  them,  but  they  only  shake  their  head 
mournfully.  r 

"  Sadly  I  quit  my  beautiful  home — home  no  longer  to 
me,  and  the  spirit  carries  me  back  over  the  lonely  sea. 
Restless  I  seem  to  wander,  passing  many  lands,  seeing 
many  things,  meeting  with  kind  people  everywhere — but 
one  thing  I  find  not.  And  then  I  rise,  beyond  the 
clouds,  beyond  moon  and  stars.  I  seem  to  lose  myself — 
thoughts  vanish.  I  am  at  rest  in  a  beautiful  garden. 

"  I  had  believed  nothing  could  be  more  beautiful  than 
Louisiana,  my  own  lovely  home,  but  that  garden  is  better 
still ;  for  it  is  the  garden  of  God — it  is  Paradise. 
And  here  I  find  them  at  last — my  own  dear  parents ;  I 
knew  I  should  find  them  again.  And  here  there  is  rest 
for  my  soul — nothing  left  to  long  for.  I  have  my  father 
again,  my  mother  again,  they  tell  me  how  happy  they  are, 
and  how  they  love  me." 

Lily's  eyes  were  shining  as  with  the  light  of  the 
Paradise  she  was  speaking  of ;  she  sighed,  and  then  con- 
tinued slowly : 

"  I  am  happy,  too,  for  a  moment ;  but  then  the  servant 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  85 

comes  in  with  the  lamp,  and  with  a  sudden  pain  at  the 
heart,  I  seem  to  be  thrust  down  from  heaven.  I  look 
about  me  bewildered,  scarcely  knowing  where  I  am — I 
feel  lonely  and  sad.  Can  you  understand  it,  Philip  ?" 

Of  course  I  understood  her  ;  they  were  foolish  dreams, 
and  would  make  her  ill.  These  twilight  roamings  ought 
not  to  be  indulged  in.  But  I  did  not  say  so. 

One  evening  she  asked  me  suddenly  :  "  Philip,  what 
makes  people  happy  ? " 

Her  question  startled  me,  but  I  was  not  at  a  loss  for 
an  answer. 

"  I  suppose  their  own  heart,"  I  said  ;  "  good  health, 
too,  and  a  pleasant  home,  where  nothing  is  wanting  to 
make  one  comfortable  ;  a  few  kind  people  also  to  love 
one,  I  should  say.' 

"  Well,  I  think  I  have  all  that.     Am  I  happy  ?  " 

"  Are  you  not,  sweetest  Lily  ? "  I  returned. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said  slowly.  u  Something  seems 
wanting.  I  cannot  quite  express  it.  ...  No  one  seems 
to  need  me  in  the  world  to  make  them  happy — I  am  of 
no  use  to  any  one." 

"  You  should  not  talk  so,  Lily  !  Are  you  not  mother's 
delight,  and  my  own  ?  I  am  sure  we  need  you.  And 
you  are  of  great  use  too  !  But  why  should  a  little  girl 
like  you  be  grieving  about  not  being  useful  ?  You  have 
nothing  to  do  as  yet  but  be  happy  yourself,  learn  your 
lessons  like  a  good  child,  and  grow  up  as  fast  as  you  can 
into  a  nice  little  woman  that  will  be  a  blessing  to  those 
who  love'  her.  But  stirely,  Lily,  you  do  not  doubt  that 
even  now  you  make  mother  happy,  and  me  too  ? " 

"  But  you  could  do  without  me.  And  there  are  so 
many  who 

"  No,  Lily  ;  I  do  not  think  we  should  like  to  do  with- 
out you.  One  is  always  glad  of  having  some  one  to 
love." 

Lily  shook  her  head. 

"  I  am  nothing  to  you  and  her,  Philip.  She  is  your 
own  mother,  and  you  are  her  son.  But  what  am  I  ?  I 
do  not  even  belong  to  you.  You  found  me  and  were 
kind  to  me." 

"  What  you  are,  Lily  ?  Why,  if  you  are  nothing  else, 
you  are  my  dear  little  friend,  whom  I  would  not  lose  for 
all  the  world." 


86  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

"  A  friend  ?     Is  that  something  ? "  she  said  dreamily. 

"  Yes,  a  great  deal,"  I  said.  "  A  friend  like  you  is  a 
loving  little  girl  who  is  ready  to  give  not  only  her  whole 
heart,  but  just  her  own  self  to  him  who  loves  her  ;  she 
will  smooth  away  his  grief  if  he  has  any,  and  return  his 
smiles.  The  little  friend  I  want  you  to  be  is  the  greatest 
treasure  to  be  found  in  life." 

She  looked  at  me  wonderingly.  "  I  do  not  understand 
you,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  you  need  not  understand  now.  The  time  will 
come  when  it  will  be  all  plain  to  you.  But  you  might 
promise  me  one  thing,  even  now — will  you  be  my  little 
friend  ? " 

She  hesitated  a  moment ;  them,  lifting  her  wondrous 
eyes  straight  to  mine,  she  jaiu  candidly  : 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  will.     It  Is  nice  to  be  something  !  " 

"  You  are  my  all,  Lily,  if  only  you  knew/' 

But  from  that  moment  a  pleasant  consciousness 
hovered  between  us.  Often  when  I  met  her,  or  took 
leave  to  go  to  town,  I  whispered  :  "  Sweet  little  Lily, 
friend."  And  she  smiled  her  own  angel  smile,  saying  : 
"  Yes,  dear,  it  is  nice  to  be  somebody's  friend." 

Ah,  I  love  the  memory  of  those  twilight  hours  when 
she  sat  by  me,  and  I  could  stroke  her  silky  hair,  or  hold 
her  soft  little  hand  in  mine  !  But  even  close  to  me  she 
would  sink  away  into  her  dreams  of  home  and  Paradise, 
and  I  felt  something  like  jealousy  at  having  no  part  in 
these  dreams. 

One  evening — how  strange  is  the  power  of  memory  ! 
I  remember  every  word,  every  look  even — we  had  been 
talking  awhile,  and  I  asked  her :  "  But  tell  me,  do  you 
care  for  me,  really  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  not,  Philip  ?  I  have  neither  father  nor 
mother  ;  no  one  cares  for  me  but  aunt  and  yourself.  Of 
course  I  must  love  you  for  it." 

"  I  know,  Lily.  But  I  mean,  could  you  love  me  even 
more  ? " 

"  I  think  so,"  she  said,  meditatively. 

She  was  then  about  twelve.  At  that  age  words  fall 
from  the  lips  easily.  And  Lily  had  a  childlike  and  won- 
derfully spontaneous  manner  of  uttering  her  thoughts  ; 
yet  in  conversation  with  her  elders  there  was  a  marked 
difference  between  her  and  other  children.  Her  words 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  87 

showed  that  she  thought  deeply,  and  the  confidence  with 
which  she  spoke  could  not  but  impress  one's  heart. 

"  I  think  so,"  she  repeated,  and  sat  thoughtful. 

"  What  could  I  do  to  make  you  love  me  even  more  ?  " 

"  There  is  one  thing  you  could  do,  Philip.  I  am  an 
orphan  child,  having  neither  father  nor  mother.  But  I 
have  learned  from  the  Word  of  God  that  of  brothers  and 
sisters  I  have  many — many.  I  know  it,  but  I  do  not 
know  them  ;  I  cannot  go  in  search  of  them.  I  am  only 
a  little  girl  who  is  a  stranger  to  the  world,  and  it  is  not 
much  I  can  do.  But  you,  Philip,  you  are  a  man  ;  you 
are  clever  and  rich,  and  you  go  about  among  the  people. 
Will  you  promise  me  one  thing  ?  Whenever  you  meet 
any  of  my  poor  brothers  and  sisters  who  are  in  want,  will 
you  be  good  to  them,  pitying  them  for  God's  sake  and 
for  my  sake  ?  Or  if  you  will  be  really  kind,  will  you  try 
and  find  them  out  and  take  me  with  you,  that  together 
we  may  comfort  them  and  help  them  ?  Will  you  promise 
me  ?  Say  yes,  and  you  shall  be  the  very  dearest  friend 
I  have." 

I  felt  the  tears  rise  to  my  eyes  ;  I  could  not  answer  at 
once,  but  after  awhile  I  said  : 

"  If  I  do  as  you  wish  me,  Lily,  will  you  be  sure  to  love 
me  always — always  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  dear  ;  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  !  " 

"  Well,  then,  I  promise  you  faithfully  that  I  will  do  it. 
But  cheer  up  now,  my  good,  kind-hearted  little  sister  ; 
you  must  not  be  always  thinking  of  things  that  make  you 
sad.  There,  look  at  me,  and  let  me  see  how  brightly 
you  can  smile." 

And  she  did  look  at  me,  and  smiled  as  no  doubt  angels 
smile  whose  measure  of  happiness  runneth  over. 

Do  you  not  see  that  Lily  had  power  over  me — that  I 
was  almost  becoming  good,  guided  by  that  little  hand  of 
hers  ?  If  it  was  but  miserable  selfishness  at  first  which 
brought  me  under  her  spell,  it  could  not  lessen  the  fact 
that  I  felt  and  even  yielded  to  the  breath  of  the  Spirit 
moving  in  that  holy  child-soul.  The  influence  for  good 
that  may  proceed  even  from  a  little  child  on  earth  is  very 
marvelous. 

1  did  begin  to  look  about  for  Lily's  suffering  brothers 
and  sisters.  It  did  not  cost  me  any  great  effort  to  do 
deeds  of  charity,  for  I  was  disposed  to  be  good-natured  ; 


88  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

and  for  Lily's  sake  I  took  even  a  pleasure  now  in  doing 
kind  things. 

Again,  meeting  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  I  would 
tell  her  how  I  had  succeeded  here  and  there  in  making 
some  poor  creature  happy.  I  described  to  her  the  misery 
in  which  I  found  this.or  that  family,  the  way  in  which  I 
assisted  them  ;  I  told  her  of  their  joy  and  gratitude. 
And  she  listened  with  radiant  face.  Sometimes  I  took 
her  with  me,  and  it  was  my  delight  on  such  occasions  to 
let  her  have  all  the  planning  and  giving.  It  was  strange 
how  her  sympathy  would  always  hit  upon  the  right 
thing  ! 

But — alas  that  I  must  say  it! — in  reality  I  was  far 
from  being  a  new  creature.  Lily  had  power  to  touch  my 
heart  ;  but  the  flesh  was  strong,  and  the  world  held  me 
fast.  My  goodness,  at  most,  was  a  mere  playing  at  being 
good. 

When  we  separated,  I  going  to  South  America,  I  con- 
tinued for  her  sake  to  help  the  poor  and  suffering  I  fell 
in  with.  But  my  deeds  of  charity  were  no  more  than  a 
kind  of  idol  worship  of  the  memories  I  loved,  of  the 
hopes  I  reveled  in  to  possess  her  more  fully  some  day 
who  was  mine  already.  Besides,  if  I  had  not  carried  out 
her  wishes,  I  could  not  have  written  her  the  letters  1 
knew  she  looked  for  ;  knowing,  moreover,  that  she  loved 
me  afresh  for  every  deed  of  kindness  I  could  tell  her  of. 
It  was  deceiving  her, — deceiving  myself,  perhaps, — but 
there  was  no  deceiving  the  righteous  Judge. 

I  found  Lily  in  tears  one  day.  She  sat  in  silence  with 
folded  hands,  one  big  tear  after  another  trickling  down 
on  a  book  before  her.  It  was  her  Bible. 

"  What  is  it,  my  child  ? "  I  cried.  "  Why  are  you 
troubled  ? " 

She  looked  at  me  with  her  dovelike  eyes,  the  tears 
trembling  in  them.  "  I  am  not  troubled,  dear,"  she  said. 

"  But  you  are  crying." 

"  For  joy — yes,  for  joy.     Look  what  I  found  !  " 

Her  finger  pointed  to  her  Bible,  and  bending  over  her, 
I  read  : 

"  When  my  father  and  my  mother  forsake  me,  then 
the  Lord  will  take  me  up." 

I  did  not  know  at  once  what  to  say.  It  touched  me, 
but  at  the  same  time  I  rather  grudged  her  needing  her 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  89 

Bible  for  comfort,  and  missing  her  parents  so  much. 
She  had  mother  and  me,  and  I  wanted  her  to  be  happy. 
But  I  could  not  tell  her,  so  I  said  after  a  while  : 

"Yes,  that  is  beautiful,  Lily, — just  as  though  it  were 
specially  written  for  you.  But  brighten  up  now  ;  I  can- 
not have  you  cry,  not  even  for  joy,  as  you  say.  I'll  be 
back  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  then  we  will  have  a 
walk." 

When  I  returned  an  expression  of  quiet  peace  had 
settled  on  her  face,  not  unusual  with  her  ;  but  from  that 
day  the  words,  "  The  Lord  will  take  me  up  "  seemed 
continuously  present  in  her  heart.  She  did  not  hide  it. 
I  could  not  shake  off  those  words  all  at  once,  but  did  so 
after  a  while. 


LETTER     X. 

AMUSEMENT  !  That  is  one  of  the  common  needs 
nowadays  ;  the  world  requires  to  be  amused — rich  and 
poor  alike.  I  do  not  say  that,  in  itself,  this  is  altogether 
blameworthy  ;  it  would  be  foolish  to  let  the  river  of 
delight  flow  past,  and  never  stoop  to  drink.  But  to  make 
amusement  the  one  question  paramount  when  life  is  so 
serious,  when  neighbors  are  in  trouble  and  the  poor  in 
want — that  surely  is  wrong.  And  yet  that  seems  just 
what  the  world  has  come  to.  "  How  shall  we  amuse 
ourselves  ?  "  appears  to  be  the  great  question  nowadays, 
the  solving  of  which,  for  thousands  of  men  and  woman, 
seems  to  be  the  very  object  of  living.  They  do  not  con- 
sider it  necessary  to  be  praying  for  daily  bread,  or 
return  thanks  when  they  have  got  it  ;  but  they  never  for- 
get to  cry  out  for  amusement.  And  even  the  poor,  with 
whom  daily  bread  is  a  question,  whose  young  may  be 
hungry,  and  their  aged  be  buried  by  the  parish,  must 
needs  be  amused  ! 

It  was  not  so  always.  Fifty  years  ago  the  mass  of  the 
people  were  satisfied  with  doing  their  work  and  looking 
upon  pleasure  as  a  relaxation  merely  ;  but  now  amuse- 
ment with  many  has  come  to  be  the  thing  to  be  worked 
and  lived  for.  And  acknowledging  this  to  be  a  fact, 
history  holds  up  an  appalling  precedent.  When  ancient 


9o 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 


Rome  made  pleasure  the  aim  of  life,  the  nation 
was  approaching  its  doom.  How  shall  it  be  with  the 
world  ?  I  do  not  know  when  its  end  may  be,  but  I  know 
this — that  those  of  her  children  who  run  recklessly  after 
pleasure  are  on  the  broad  way  that  leads  to  hell ;  and  the 
excess  which  is  their  sin  on  earth  will  be  their  punish- 
ment here.  Is  the  world  rich  in  places  of  amusement  ? 
— be  sure  so  is  hell.  We  too  have  our  gardens,  our 
Tivoli — call  it  Vauxhall,  or  Crystal  Palace,  or  Champs 
Elysees,  it  matters  not,  the  thing  is  here.  And  whatever 
is  being  invented  on  pleasure-hunting  earth,  we  have  it 
to  perfection.  Does  the  world  flock  by  thousands  to  its 
amusements  ? — hell  does  so  by  millions.  All  pleasures, 
all  passions,  run  loose  here  in  awful  confusion,  and  help- 
lessly you  are  whirled  along.  Yet  no  matter  what  excess 
there  be  of  wanton  gaiety,  there  broods  over  all  that 
deathlike  stillness — hell's  frightful  atmosphere — which  I 
have  tried  to  describe  before.  Perhaps  you  remember 
the  effect  of  sounds  deadened  by  a  muffling  fog  ;  that 
may  give  you  a  faint  idea  of  what  I  cannot  otherwise 
bring  home  to  you.  If  one  succeeds  at  times  in  break- 
ing away  from  this  horrible  pretense  of  pleasure,  it  leaves 
one  panting  and  spirit-broken,  sick  of  existence  and  long- 
ing for  rest  ;  but  despite  the  loathing  one  is  immediately 
after  it  again,  forcing  the  senses  to  what  never  yields 
them  a  shadow  of  delight.  Amusement  here,  let  me  tell 
you,  is  a  very  lash  of  correction,  driving  all  thoughts  of 
pleasure  far,  far  away.  Ah,  how  they  long  for  work, 
those  lost  souls,  to  whom  labor  on  earth  was  so  hateful, 
or,  at  best,  but  a  means  towards  enjoyment.  How  gladly 
they  would  slave  on  a  galley  here,  deeming  the  meanest 
work  a  blessing.  But  the  night  has  come  when  no  man 
can  work. 

There  is  a  memory  in  this  kingdom  of  death  of  how 
the  Son  of  God  once  descended  to  hell  to  preach  to  the 
spirits  in  prison,  filling  the  space  between  the  great  deep 
and  Paradise  with  the  cry  of  His  love,  and  proclaiming 
liberty  to  the  captives.  Then  hell  for  a  time  was  light 
as  day  ;  but  most  of  those  present  hardened  their  hearts, 
and  fell  back  into  darkness. 

I  felt  a  burning  desire  to  meet  some  one  who  had 
heard  the  voice  of  the  Son  of  God,  but  I  own  it  was  a 


LETTERS  FROM  'HELL.  91 

foolish  wish,  since  it  could  do  me  no  good — all  here  being 
vanity  and  nothingness  still,  in  spite  of  that  knowledge, 
one  is  trying  and  longing  for  something  even  here. 

There  are  naturally  many  souls  in  hell  who  heard  that 
wondrous  preaching,  but  they  are  all  lost ;  and  no  lost 
soul  can  help  another  to  a  ray  of  light.  Had  they  but 
remembered  a  single  word  of  the  Saviour's — laid  it  up 
in  their  hearts,  I  mean — they  would  not  now  be  here. 
Some  certainly  pretend  to  recollect  this  or  that,  but  what 
they  said  in  answer  to  my  inquiry  was  cant  and  blas- 
phemy ;  it  gave  me  no  comfort,  and,  despairingly,  I 
turned  from  my  desire. 

I  once  ventured  upon  a  journey  through  some  outlying 
districts  ;  do  not  be  surprised  at  my  saying  I  ventured, 
for  I  assure  you  it  needs  courage  here  to  get  to  know 
more  than  you  absolutely  must.  Discovery  is  full  of 
horror,  even  to  him  who  has  nothing  to  lose. 

Indeed,  you  must  not  ask  me  to  describe  to  you  all  I 
saw  and  heard  ;  It  would  take  me  too  far,  and  it  could 
not  possibly  interest  you  to  hear  all  I  might  say  concern- 
ing hell's  inhabitants;  those  crowds  of  thieves,  murderers, 
deceivers,  liars,  misers,  spendthrifts,  perjurers,  forgers, 
hypocrites,  seducers,  and  slanderers.  But  stop  ! — there 
are  some  I  must  tell  you  about.  Look  at  that  tribe  of 
strutting  peacocks  in  human  guise  !  They  are  the  self- 
conceited,  a  very  refuse  of  hell  ;  they  thought  well  of 
themselves  once,  but  are  a  laughing-stock  now. 

And  these  miserable  women  flapping  their  arms  wildly, 
and  going  about  cluck-clucking  like  so  many  hens  dis- 
tressed for  their  brood,  spreading  wings  of  pity,  but 
vainly  seeking  for  aught  to  be  gathered  in  ! — they  are  the 
wicked  mothers,  groaning  for  the  children  they  neglected 
in  sloth  or  selfishness. 

And  these  queer  creatures  fawning  about  so  meanly, 
slobbering  all  whom  they  meet  with  sympathy,  offering 
assistance  right  and  left ! — they  are  the  merciless  ones. 
Their  hearts  were  too  hard  formerly  :  they  are  too  soft 
now,  and  no  one  here  requires  their  mercy. 

A  few  other  figures  I  may  single  out. 

I  have  told  you  of  the  great  black  river  here  which  is 
not  Lethe.  I  was  sitting  one  day  near  its  bank,  thinking 
of  the  sad  past  and  sadder  future  ;  the  black  waves 
rolled  heavily  by. 


92  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

Groans  broke  upon  the  silence  about  me.  I  started 
and  perceived  a  strange  figure,  strangely  occupied.  It 
was  a  man  of  commanding  aspect,  even  handsome,  but 
in  a  terrible  plight.  He  sat  by  the  river  washing  his 
hands,  which  dripped  with  blood.  But  for  all  his  wash- 
ing the  bright  crimson  would  not  leave  his  fingers  ;  as 
soon  as  he  lifted  them  above  the  water,  the  red  blood 
trickled  down  afresh.  It  was  a  pitiful  sight. 

He  seemed  to  be  aware  of  my  presence,  for  he  turned 
upon  me  suddenly,  saying,  "  What  is  truth  ? "  I  did  not 
reply  at  once,  feeling  it  to  be  a  question  that  should  not 
be  answered  lightly;  so  raising  his  voice,  he  repeated 
impatiently,  "  What  is  truth  ? " 

"Well,"  I  said,  "  it  is  a  truth,  and  a  sad  one,  that  it  is 
too  late  now  for  us  to  be  seeking  the  truth." 

This  answer  did  not  appear  to  satisfy  him.  He  shook 
his  head,  turning  away.  And  again  he  set  to  washing 
his  hands. 

I  endeavored  to  draw  him  into  conversation.  I  seemed 
suddenly  to  know  that  he  was  one  of  those  doubly 
miserable  souls  who  had  seen  the  Son  of  Man  face  to 
face  and  heard  Him  speak,  and  I  was  most  anxious  to 
hear  what  he  might  have  to  tell  me;  but  there  was  no 
turning  him  from  his  awful  occupation. 

I  left  him  after  a  while.  Who  he  was  I  knew  without 
the  testimony  of  his  purple-bordered  toga  and  the  rin^ 
on  his  finger— Pontius  Pilate  ! 

He  shuns  the  city  of  the  Jews,  and  spends  his  time 
by  the  river  washing  his  hands.  But  of  every  passer-by 
he  asks  the  question,  What  is  truth  ?  Whatever  answer 
he  receives  he  shakes  his  head:  it  is  not  general  truths  he 
wants  to  know  about,  but  the  Truth — and  that  is  not 
known  here.  And  perceive  the  cutting  contrast !  Pilate 
inquiring  about  truth,  yet  washing  his  hands  in  the  river 
of  falsehood  ! 

I  went  my  way  through  desert  places — uncultivated 
tracts,  that  is,  but  nowise  unpeopled;  no  spot  in  hell  is 
uninhabited,  however  dismal  and  waste  it  may  be. 
There  are  souls  whom  an  inward  necessity  drives  into 
the  howling  wilderness  ;  those,  for  instance,  who  in  life 
worked  out  dark  plots  ending  in  great  crimes.  These 
places  are  congenial  to  them. 

There  is  one  terrible  figure  one  meets  at  times  in  the 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  93 

dreariest  wastes — a  man  tall  and  powerful,  half-naked, 
the  skin  of  some  animal  being  all  his  clothing.  The 
hair  hangs  wildly  about  his  temples;  there  is  a  furtive 
look  in  his  eye,  and  his  brow  is  gloomy.  There  is  a 
mark  upon  his  forehead,  and  he  carries  a  club  ;  not  that 
he  seems  to  require  it,  for  he  is  a  fugitive  always,  in  con- 
stant fear  of  being  slain.  Every  one  who  meets  him 
trembles,  but  he  is  afraid  of  the  weakest  and  most  help- 
less of  creatures,  fleeing  them  all  for  (ear  of  his  wretched 
life.  Always  alone,  he  seems  nowhere  and  everywhere. 
A  cursed  fugitive  he  was  on  earth — a  cursed  fugitive  he 
is  in  hell,  for  the  Lord  has  set  His  mark  upon  him,  that 
every  one  should  know  Cain  and  not  slay  him. 

I  hurried  away,  anxious  to  get  rid  of  the  terrible  sight. 
Here,  then,  I  had  found  a  soul  that  was  more  wretched 
than  myself.  But  the  thought  was  poor  comfort ;  I 
could  not  shake  off  the  impression  of  the  lying  flattery 
with  which  they  buried  me.  But  I  forget — I  have  not 
told  you  my  first  experience  by  that  vile  river.  As  I 
neared  it  I  .was  met — would  you  believe  it — by  an 
account  of  my  own  obsequies.  It  was  sickening  !  A 
miserable  versifier,  lately  come  hither  it  seems,  was 
hawking  about  his  latest  production.  I  do  not  know 
that  he  really  knew  me,  but  he  insisted  on  flourishing  a 
paper  in  my  face,  and  I  could  not  help  reading  with  my 
own  eyes  the  flaring  title,  to  this  effect : 

"  New  and  mournful  ditty,  to  the  memory  of  Philip  H., 
Esq.,  whose  heirs  could  pay  for  the  grandest  funeral  and 
the  most  flattering  parson  to  escort  him  to  heaven,  but 
could  not  keep  him  out  of  hell.  Leading  sentiment — his 
Reverence's  own — '  We  shall  meet  again  ! ' ' 

A  funeral  ditty  in  honor  of  me  .  .  .  staring  me  in  the 
face  by  the  river  of  lies  !  ...  I  bit  my  lips,  for  I  needs 
must  read  it. 

It  began  with  a  panegyric  on  my  many  virtues,  few  of 
which  I  ever  possessed  ;  it  then  broke  out  into  a  doleful 
lamentation  about  the  loss  society  had  sustained  by  my 
untimely  death,  and  ended  with  a  description  of  the 
blesse'd  life  I  had  entered  upon  to  receive  the  reward  of 
my  deeds,  joy  and,  glory  unspeakable,  which  henceforth 
were  my  blessed  inheritance  !  Terrible  irony !  . 

I  felt  as  though  a  hundred  daggers  had  entered  my 
soul,  Sick  at  heart  I  crumpled  up  the  wretched  produc- 


94  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

tion  and  fled  from  the  place.  It  was  some  time  before 
I  could  get  over  the  deep  bitterness  of  this  experience, 
and  when  in  a  measure  I  had  conquered  it,  that  parson's 
"  leading  sentiment  "  remained  as  a  drop  of  rankling 
poison.  Thou  fool  ! — or  hypocrite — which  is  it  ?  As 
though  a  man  had  but  to  die  to  go  straightway  to  bliss  ! 
I  will  not  enlarge  upon  the  hopeful  statement — you  little 
dreamt  of  its  possible  meaning  when  you  said,  "  We  shall 
meet  again  ! " 

It  was  about  this  time  that  I  first  came  across  a  king 
in  this  place.  Pitiful  sight !  It  is  scarcely  possible  to 
conceive  a  greater  contrast  between  the  once  and  the 
now — kingship  on  earth  and  kingship  in  hell  ! 

Of  all  the  abjects  one  meets  with  here,  I  do  believe 
emperors,  kings,  and  princes  of  every  description  are  the 
poorest.  There  are  no  empires  and  kingdoms  here, 
save  indeed  Satan's,  and  nothing  deserving  the  appella- 
tion of  government.  What  rules  us  is  a  kind  of  social 
instinct  and  the  habits  of  life  we  brought  with  us  from 
the  world.  So,  you  see,  kings  and  princes  are  nowise 
needed.  Their  rank  of  course  entitles  them  to  respect, 
and  as  on  earth  so  here,  one  bows  involuntarily  to  their 
exalted  position  ;  but  in  truth  they  are  too  miserable  to 
look  for  respect.  It  is  with  them  as  with  the  image  of 
some  castaway  saint,  the  gilding  of  which  has  worn  off, 
and  which  ends  its  days  in  the  lumber-room,  ignomin- 
iously  forgotten.  Their  former  greatness  was  merely 
conventional ;  it  was  gilding,  in  fact,  and  no  real  gold. 
It  has  worn  off,  and  there  is  nothing  left  to  bespeak 
their  majesty.  The  poor  kings  have  no  kingdom  here 
to  display  their  greatness,  no  armies  that  will  fight  and 
die  at  their  bidding,  no  millions  to  be  squandered  ;  they 
have  nothing  left  but  the  sad  pretence  of  former  gran- 
deur. Their  courtly  state  is  represented  by  a  few 
wretched  sycophants  who  stick  to  them,  not  for  love  but 
for  gain  illusive  of  course,  and  following  former  habit 
merely.  I  said  they  are  miserable, — weighed  down  would 
be  a  more  descriptive  word,  and  literally  true,  for  they 
nearly  sink  beneath  the  burden  of  their  crowns.  Do  you 
wish  to  know  the  possible  weight  of  a  crown  ?  I  will 
meet  you  with  another  question :  can  you  tell  me  how 
great  a  king's  responsibility  may  be  on  earth  ?  They 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  95 

weigh  tons  these  crowns,  believe  me.  The  poor  kings, 
propped  up  as  they  are  by  ministers  and  satellites,  can 
scarcely  more  than  crawl,  so  heavy  is  their  burden. 

Worse  off  than  any  are  those  potentates  whose  names 
on  e?.rth  boasted  of  the  addition  "  the  Great ;  "  alas, 
those  great  ones  are  peculiarly  small  here,  and  those  five 
letters  add  an  enormous  weight  to  their  crowns  ! 

Of  truly  great  sovereigns,  of  course  none  arrive  here, 
and  those  others  whom  the  world  called  Great  received 
that  appellation  merely  because  they  were  either  great 
destroyers  of  human  life,  slaughtering  the  people  by 
thousands  for  their  own  miserable  renown,  or  perhaps 
because  they  outdid  all  other  men  and  princes  in  that 
peculiar  knavery  which  goes  by  the  name  of  state-craft. 
Some  few  also  may  have  come  by  their  distinction  quite 
by  chance  ;  perhaps  they  had  clever  ministers  working 
for  their  glory.  But  these  sometimes  are  the  most  con- 
ceited of  all  crown-bearers  ;  nothing  is  left  for  them  but 
to  go  to  hell  when  they  have  done. 

What  a  gain  it  would  have  been  for  those  poor  poten- 
tates if,  instead  of  striving  for  the  appellation  "  the 
Great,"  they  had  been  content  to  be  called  "  the  Good  " 
or  "  the  Beloved  !  "  Charity  then,  with  them  also,  might 
have  covered  a  multitude  of  sins.  Now  nothing  is  left 
but  the  wailing  and  gnashing  of  teeth. 

You  never  hear  them  speak  ;  sighing  and  groaning 
seems  to  be  their  one  means  of  intercourse.  But  no  one 
cares  to  listen  ;  indeed  they  are  scarcely  fit  for  society. 
The  knowledge  of  this  makes  them  shy  and  retiring  ; 
one  hardly  ever  meets  them  ;  and  if  they  do  venture 
abroad,  they  are  at  once  set  upon  as  a  hawk  by  innumer- 
able sparrows — persecuted  by  all  who  suffered  through 
them  in  life,  as  many  as  half  a  nation  sometimes. 

How  enviable  might  have  been  their  days  on  earth  ! 
Blessed  beyond  their  fellows,  all  was  theirs  to  make 
themselves  and  others  happy  ;  but  ambition  prevented 
them  from  seeing  that  their  crown  might — ay,  should — 
be  a  well  of  blessing  for  the  people.  They  were  always 
speaking  of  their  right  divine,  calling  themselves  kings 
by  the  grace  of  God  ;  they  forgot  that  it  would  have  been 
far  better  to  own  themselves  poor  sinners  through  the 
grace  of  God  than  kings  by  right  divine,  and  by  that 
right  be  cast  into  hell. 


96  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

I  spoke  of  destroyers  of  human  life,  but  one  need  not 
be  a  king  or  emperor  for  that ;  some  of  the  most  ruthless 
slaughterers  of  humanity  the  world  has  known  were  only 
generals,  admirals,  marshals,  and  the  like. 

These  also  continue  their  career  in  hell.  There  are 
plenty  here  to  flock  to  their  standards — all  those,  namely, 
who  on  earth  were  forgetful  of  the  peace  and  goodwill 
which  the  God  of  love  proclaimed  to  mankind.  They 
meet  here,  hundreds  of  thousands  of  them,  and,  like  so 
many  grinning  skeletons,  at  once  prepare  for  battle. 
Vainest  show  !  Their  artillery  produces  mere  smoke. 
The  spectre  phalanx  charges:  one  expects  a  great 
onslaught,  but  it  is  nothing  ;  they  merely  change  sides, 
as  it  were,  and  begin  the  battle  afresh.  They  are 
unable  to  shed  blood  now,  but  they  are  forever  spending 
their  soul's  energy  in  miserable  bloodthirstiness. 

I  thought  of  the  warriors  of  Walhalla — foolish  com- 
parison !  for  there  is  nothing  in  common  between  the 
heroes  there  and  the  would-be  heroes  here.  The 
warriors  of  Walhalla  are  said  to  be  resplendent  with 
strength  and  glory,  living  not  only  a  real  but  a  perfect 
life  ;  whereas  their  wretched  semblances  here  are  only 
fit  to  move  laughter  and  pity. 

You  know  that  we  are  always  suffering  thirst — an 
awful  quenchless  thirst — ever  longing  for  a  drop  of 
water  to  cool  the  tongue.  One  would  imagine  no  one 
would  willingly  come  to  try  and  slake  his  thirst  with  the 
stagnant  water  of  the  horrible  river ;  nevertheless  there 
are  some  who  do  try  it,  quite  secretly  though,  as  if  that 
could  be  kept  a  secret !  For  their  whole  body  swells 
and  is  puffed  out  with  the  slimy  falsehood,  which,  break- 
ing through  their  every  pore,  turns  them  into  positive 
lepers  of  lying.  Having  drunk  once  they  always  drink 
again,  but  their  thirst  is  never  quenched. 

As  I  am  thinking  of  ending  this  letter,  the  shadow  of 
a  saying  crosses  my  memory,  that  of  good  things  there 
are  always  three.  I  forget  which  of  earth's  tongues  has 
moulded  this  into  a  proverb,  but  something  more  than  a 
proverb  often  troubles  me  now  :  I  remember  that  I  used 
to  be  taught  to  believe  in  the  Trinity  in  Unity,  but  I 
never  get  beyond  the  two  now — I  know  something  of  a 
Father,  and  something  of  a  Saviour ;  but  was  not  there  a 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  97 

third  to  help  one  to  say  " our  Father  "  and  "  my  Saviour"  ? 
Alas  the  idea  is  a  blank  now,  leaving  a  shadow  to  haunt 
me  ! 

There  are  other  three  I  am  vainly  trying  to  recall  to 
my  heart — faith,  hope,  and  charity.  I  know  nothing  of 
faith  now,  and  nothing  of  hope.  I  might  have  known 
charity,  and  I  once  believed  I  knew  love  :  but  now,  alas, 
I  know  only  what  it  might,  what  it  should  have  been. 

Oh  that  I  could  warn  you  who  still  walk  in  hope  ! 
Love  is  no  light  thing,  but  the  deepest  outcome  of  the 
soul.  Had  I  known  it  truly,  faith  and  hope  now  would 
stand  by  my  side. 

Be  warned  my  brothers,  my  sisters  !  My  heart  yearns 
for  you  ;  it  yearns  for  thee,  my  friend,  who  never  with  a 
word  even  hast  answered  any  of  these  letters ;  for  thee, 
mother,  who  never  understoodst  my  deepest  need  ;  for 
thee,  Martin,  who  in  just  retribution  art  as  the  lash  now 
adding  torment  to  torment.  I  love  thee  still, — what  is  it 
thou  wouldst  have  told  me  ?  My  heart  is  yearning,  my 
brothers,  my  sisters ;  but  vain,  vain,  is  the  longing  ;  it 
leaves  me  in  hell ! 


LETTER    XI. 

WOULD  you  believe  it — not  only  my  sins,  but  even  the 
"  good  deeds  "  of  my  life  come  back  to  me  in  torment !  I 
can  but  add,  it  is  very  natural !  For  even  our  best 
actions  are  full  of  blemish.  Every  one  of  them  leaves  a 
sting  behind,  and  if  it  did  not  prick  conscience  then,  it 
has  power  to  enter  the  soul  now,  wounding  it  deeply. 

There  was  a  clerk  in  our  counting-house,  a  young 
man,  in  whom  I  took  great  interest.  I  trusted  him 
entirely ;  he  filled  a  responsible  position,  acting  as 
cashier.  Various  little  things  coming  under  my  notice 
first  caused  me  to  doubt  his  honesty.  I  watched  him, 
and  discovered  that  he  had  contracted  a  habit  of 
gambling.  Chance  offered  me  an  opportunity  of  taking 
him  in  the  act. 

He  frequented  a  low  gambling  house  ;  I  had  been 
directed  to  the  place.  The  adventure  was  not  without 
risk  to  myself,  but  that  was  nothing  to  me.  It  was  a 


98  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

wintry  evening,  cold  and  blustering,  when,  wrapped  in 
an  ordinary  overcoat,  I  approached  the  apparently  unin- 
habited house.  In  answer  to  a  peculiar  knock,  howeverp 
the  door  was  opened,  and  having  passed  a  low  dark 
passage,  I  entered  a  well-lit  room.  I  found  a  company 
of  gamblers  assembled,  as  numerous  as  varied,  evidently 
enjoying  themselves  though  the  place  reeked  with  the 
fumes  of  tobacco  and  gin.  Several  tables  were  going, 
one  of  them  was  kept  by  my  young  scapegrace,  who 
apparently  enjoyed  his  dignity  of  banker.  Acting  on  a 
sudden  impulse,  I  faced  him  and  staked  a  small  sum. 

The  sudden  sight  of  me  had  a  terrible  effect  on  him. 
His  face  grew  ashy,  and  the  cards  fell  from  his  hand. 
Having  regained  some  self-command,  he  seemed  about 
to  rise,  either  to  rush  from  the  place  or  sink  down  at  my 
feet.  But  a  look  from  me  was  sufficient  to  rivet  him  to 
his  seat.  One  of  those  present,  perceiving  his  confusion, 
handed  him  a  glass  of  port ;  he  seized  it  eagerly  and 
drained  it.  His  pallor  yielded  to  a  flush  ;'  he  looked  me 
in  the  face.  But  coldly  I  disowned  him — standing  before 
him  as  a  stranger  who  desired  the  continuation  of  the 
game.  So  did  the  rest  of  the  company.  None  of  them 
suspected  the  peculiar  relation  between  myself  and  the 
unfortunate  croupier.  I  was  determined  he  should 
suffer  ;  I  compelled  him  to  play.  With  trembling  hands, 
scarcely  knowing  what  he  did,  he  dealt  the  cards,  gave 
and  received  cash.  The  game  went  on,  and  as  chance 
would  have  it,  the  youngster  had  all  the  luck.  But  I 
could  abide  a  turn  of  the  tide  ;  I  knew  it  would  come, 
and  presently  I  began  to  force  the  game.  I  could  afford 
to  play  higher  than  any  of  them  probably  had  ever  done 
before.  The  excitement  grew  to  intensity ;  with  the 
croupier  it  appeared  simply  maddening  ;  his  eyes  started 
from  his  head.  Another  stake,  and  I  had  broken  the 
bank. 

With  a  yell  of  despair  the  unhappy  youth  sprang  to  his 
feet,  and  crying,  "All  is  lost !  "  was  about  to  rush  past 
me  and  break  from  the  place.  "  Not  all !  "  I  said  under 
my  breath,  seizing  hold  of  his  arm;  "more  still  might 
be  lost.  Stop  a  minute  ;  we  leave  this  house  together  !  " 

He  took  his  hat  and  coat  and  followed  me.  The  com- 
pany stared  of  course,  but  all  was  done  so  quietly  that 
none  felt  justified  in  demanding  an  explanation. 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  99 

I  took  him  with  me,  walking  by  my  side  and  trembling 
visibly.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  till  we  entered  the 
library  of  my  house.  There  I  confronted  him,  and  did 
not  spare  him.  He  who  had  been  trusted  beyond  his 
age — trusted  entirely — a  gambler  and  a  thief  ! 

He  stood  before  me  crushed  and  overwhelmed. 
He  ceased  praying  for  mercy  for  himself,  but  entreated 
me  to  spare  his  widowed  mother,  whose  only  stay  he 
was. 

I  did  not  relent  so  easily,  although,  considering  that 
he  had  had  a  lesson,  I  determined  to  pardon  him;  but  I 
was  also  determined  that  he  should  remember  that  night 
as  long  as  he  lived. 

In  agony  he  lay  at  my  feet  when  I  promised  mercy  at 
last,  saying  I  would  keep  the  matter  to  myself,  and  allow 
him  the  opportunity  of  making  up  for  his  wrong;  he 
might  do  so,  and  thank  me  for  not  ruining  his  prospects. 

He  prepared  to  take  his  leave,  and  staggered  to  the 
door,  scarcely  able  to  stand  on  his  feet.  It  had  been  too 
much  for  him.  I  saw  I  could  not  let  him  go,  or  his 
miserable  secret  would  at  once  become  known  to  his 
mother.  I  rang  for  my  valet,  and  ordered  him  to  give 
the  young  man  a  bed  in  my  house. 

The  following  morning  found  him  in  delirium;  brain 
fever  supervened.  I  thought  of  the  poor  widow,  and 
how  anxious  he  had  been  she  should  not  know.  I 
resolved  to  keep  his  secret;  the  servant,  I  knew,  could 
be  trusted.  So  I  wrote  to  his  mother  that  I  had  been 
obliged  to  send  him  away  on  business  suddenly;  it 
would  be  a  several  weeks'  absence — meanwhile  she  might 
be  at  rest  about  him. 

Thus  his  fate,  next  to  God,  was  left  with  me  entirely. 
He  was  seriously  ill ;  I  had  him  nursed  conscientiously, 
dividing  nearly  all  my  time  between  him  and  his  mother. 
I  really  acted  as  a  brother  by  him,  as  a  son  by  her. 
When  recovery  had  set  in  and  he  knew  me  again,  I  sur- 
rounded him  with  kindness,  doing  my  utmost  to  bring 
him  back  to  health  and  self-respect. 

Some  six  weeks  elapsed  before  he  could  go  back  to 
his  mother.  She  was  told  he  had  been  ill  on  his  journey. 
On  a  journey  indeed  he  had  been,  returning  from  the 
very  gates  of  death.  His  mother  never  learned  the  true 
cause  of  his  absence.  I  placed  him  in  another  branch 


IOO  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

of  the  business;  he  rose  by  degrees,  and  I  ever  found 
him  a  faithful  servant. 

Now  to  the  point.  You  think  perhaps  that  I  had  every 
reason  for  being  thoroughly  satisfied  with  myself  for 
once.  1  should  have  thought  so  at  the  time  !  But  here, 
where  the  scales  fall  from  one's  eyes,  where  everything 
appears  in  uncompromising  nakedness,  one  learns  to 
judge  differently. 

There  was  no  wrong  in  catching  the  bird  by  the  wing 
as  I  did,  and  holding  him  tight  till  he  dropped,  thoroughly 
frightened.  I  had  saved  him  from  his  sin.  But  looking 
back  now  I  see  that  pride  and  self-consciousness  guided 
my  hand.  Vanity  was  flattered  by  the  moral  ascendancy 
I  had  over  the  youth  ;  a  look  of  mine  had  sufficed  to 
force  him  to  continue  awhile  in  his  wicked  course,  and 
then  I  could  have  staked  my  soul  that  he  would  not 
again  touch  a  card  to  his  dying  day.  I  knew  it,  I 
mean,  even  at  the  moment,  and  felt  elated  by  the  know- 
ledge. 

My  subsequent  kindness  to  him,  I  fear,  sprang  from  a 
feeling  that  I  had  been  hard  on  him.  I  had  taken 
delight  in  his  humiliation.  What  was  left  then,  I  ask,  to 
make  the  deed  a  good  one  ?  Judge  for  yourself,  my 
friend!  Humiliation  is  forme  now — I  feel  it  deeply  when- 
ever I  think  of  his  contrition  and  suffering. 

That  night,  in  fact,  left  her  traces  on  his  life.  The 
brightness  was  wiped  out  of  it.  He  had  been  a  light- 
hearted  youth ;  he  was  a  sad-browed  man.  A  shy, 
almost  timorous  look,  witnessed  to  the  memory  of  that 
occurrence,  although  it  remained  a  secret  between  him 
and  me. 

You  see,  then,  that  even  our  so-called  good  deeds  may 
weigh  on  our  souls  :  is  it  not  terrible  ?  But  how  little 
do  they  deserve  to  be  called  good,  since  few  of  them,  I 
fear  me,  if  thoroughly  examined,  will  stand  the  test  I 
Not  that  I  would  deny  there  being  such  things  as  good 
works  ;  though,  if  viewed  aright,  what  are  they  but  the 
mere  doing  of  our  duty  ?  How  indeed  could  they 
be  more,  if  we  have  the  means  and  power  of  doing 
them  ! 

Was  not  there  something  we  used  to  call  the  articles  of 
belief  ?  I  have  a  faint  recollection.  Did  they  not  refer 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  IOI 

to  the  mystery  of  the  Trinity,  and  were  they  not,  like 
the  Lord's  Prayer,  a  support  to  Christian  souls  ? 

I  have  tried  to  remember  them,  driving  the  brain  to 
the  verge  of  madness  ;  but  I  have  given  it  up  now.  What 
would  be  the  use  if  I  could  rememember,  if  I  could 
repeat  those  articles,  and  the  whole  of  the  catechism 
besides  ?  It  would  be  words — words  only,  as  empty  and 
hollow  as  everything  about  me.  It  is  faith  only  which 
could  give  them  their  true  meaning.  Faith  ? — what  is 
faith  ?  I  know  about  it.  I  know  that  its  object  is  the 
Son  of  God.  The  very  devils  know  as  much  as  that.  I 
know  that  he  is  the  Saviour.  But  how  he  saves,  and  how 
a  lost  soul  can  come  to  have  part  in  Him,  woe  is  me  I 
cannot  tell. 

I  feel  about  faith  as  I  do  about  repentance.  I  think  if 
I  could  repent  but  for  one  short  moment — repent  truly — 
salvation  would  be  mine.  But  vain  is  the  trying,  I  can- 
not— cannot  repent.  At  times  I  feel  as  if  I  were  very 
near  that  blessed  experience,  as  if  my  being  would  dis- 
solve in  tears, — ah  vainest  deception  !  "  Oh  for  a  tear — 
a  single  tear  !  "  I  keep  sighing,  "  Father  of  Mercy," — 
but  what  boots  the  prayer  of  anguish  if  barren  of  faith  ? 
— "  Father  of  mercy,  oh  grant  me  a  tear  !  " 

Time  passes.  Nay,  this  is  nonsense,  since  there  is  no 
time  here.  Something,  however  appears  to  pass  ;  I  infer 
that  from  the  increasing  glimmer  of  light.  The  blissful 
moment  seems  to  be  approaching  when  the  glory  of  Para- 
dise will  swallow  up  the  night  of  hell.  But  I  speak  of 
what  I  have  not  seen.  It  may  be  an  awful  moment  sub- 
lime rather  than  blessed,  and  it  may  be  in  the  distance  of 
unmeasured  ages.  .  .  . 

Broad  is  the  way  which  leads  to  destruction;  but  how 
broad  is  not  known  till  you  see  it  from  hell. 

Men  find  it  a  pleasant  road;  they  go  along  dancing 
and  singing,  as  it  were,  enjoying  the  moment,  and  never 
asking  whether  they  give  it  to  God  or  to  the  devil. 
They  think  of  the  future  only  as  far  as  it  may  concern 
some  pleasure  they  are  anticipating,  some  ball  or  play 
perhaps,  or  even  the  new  clothes  they  are  going  to  wear. 
They  call  the  hour  of  waiting  an  eternity,  and  know  not 
the  awful  import  of  the  word.  "  We  love  to  live,"  they 
say;  but  death  holds  them  in  his  embrace.  Holbein's 
well-known  "  Dance  of  Death  "  is  more  than  a  picture, 


102  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

I  assure  you.  They  dance,  they  make  love,  they  chatter, 
they  eat  and  sleep  through  life.  A  sudden  wrench — and 
lo,  they  wake  in  hell. 

There  are  others  who  grovel  along  that  road.  One 
would  imagine  them  to  find  it  irksome,  but  by  no  means. 
The  mole  in  the  ground  is  as  satisfied  in  his  way  as  the 
bird  in  the  air.  There  are  human  moles.  "  \V"e  lead 
steady  lives,"  they  say,  and  grovel  in  the  dust.  "  We 
have  eyes  to  see," — of  course  they  have;  it  is  but  a  myth 
which  asserts  that  moles  are  blind.  They  have  an  eye,  I 
assure  you,  for  the  smallest  advantage  they  can  pick  up 
in  their  earthly  course.  Not  that  they  look  for  the  small 
gains  merely;  it  is  the  great  ones  they  like,  and  burrow 
for  them  assiduously.  That  is  what  they  use  their  eyes 
for — to  peer  about  in  the  dust;  they  never  direct  them 
heavenward.  They  do  not  seem  aware  even  of  the  starry 
sky  above  the  clods  of  earth.  They  spend  their  lives  in 
trying  to  break  those  clods  for  something  that  may  be 
within;  and,  groveling  along,  they  sooner  or  later  come 
upon  a  hole  in  the  ground.  They  did  not  look  for  it, 
and  tumble  in  unawares.  Death  has  swallowed  them 
up;  and,  recovering  from  the  fall,  they  find  themselves 
in  hell. 

It  is  truly  to  be  marveled  at !  All  men  know  that 
their  portion  is  to  die,  but  few  of  them  ever  think  of 
death,  and  fewer  still  prepare  themselves  for  dying. 
Death  comes  to  most  men  as  an  unexpected  visitor  who 
will  take  no  denial,  though  one  never  made  ready  for 
him.  What  is  there  left  for  them  but  a  terrible  waking 
in  hell. 

It  is  so  with  most;  and  more  marvelous  still,  as  I  have 
said  already,  one  finds  people  here  one  would  never  have 
dared  to  look  for.  They  had  gained  the  veneration  and 
love  of  the  world,  even  of  good  people  in  the  world;  the 
tearful  prayers  of  their  friends  went  to  heaven,  mourn- 
ing their  death.  But  they  had  not  gone  to  heaven;  they  are 
in  hell ;  for  God  judges  not  with  the  eyes  of  men.  They 
may  have  been  excellent  people  and  possessed  of  many 
a  virtue,  but  they  lacked  one  thing  which  alone  avails  in 
the  end;  they  had  not  the  heart  of  faith  which  yields 
itself  to  God  entirely.  They  may  have  gained  the  whole 
world,  but  they  lost  their  own  soul. 

And  again,  there  are  others  one  most  certainly  ex- 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  103 

pected  here  who  have  never  arrived.  Their  evil  reputa- 
tion, their  works  went  before  them,  announcing  them,  as 
it  were;  but  they  are  looked  for  in  vain.  There  is  only 
one  way  of  accounting  for  this.  Great  sinners  though 
they  were,  iniquitous  and  full  of  pollution,  they  must 
yet  have  come  to  that  godly  sorrow  which  worketh 
repentance  to  salvation.  Perhaps  at  the  very  last  the 
Saviour  stood  up  between  them  and  hell,  where  their 
place  seemed  prepared  for  a  certainty. 

You  who  have  loved  your  dead  and  grieve  for  them 
tenderly — with  trembling  hearts  and  tearful  voice  I  hear 
you  ask  :  "  May  we  not  go  on  loving  them,  helping  them 
perhaps  with  our  true  heart's,  prayers  ?  " 

I  know  not.  Yet  pray — pray  with  all  your  soul  and 
without  ceasing.  One  thing  I  am  certain  of,  that  the 
prayer  of  love  is  never  vain  ;  the  tears  of  love  can  never 
be  lost !  For  God  is  love,  and  His  Son  is  the  fulfil- 
ment of  that  love  to  all  eternity. 

Looking  backward  and  looking  forward  to  me  is 
fraught  with  equal  pain.  I  see  nothing  before  me  but  an 
endless  existence  which  knows  not  of  hope,  while  all 
behind  me  is  wrapt  in  the  wild  regret  of  a  life  that  is 
lost. 

Hell  yields  a  terrible  knowledge — how  blessedly 
fruitful  life  might  have  been  !  Happy  ye  are  whose  life 
is  still  in  your  hands.  While  there  is  life  there  is  hope — 
never  was  there  a  truer  word.  Do  not,  I  beseech  you, 
yield  to  the  pernicious  delusion  that  you  have  lost  your 
opportunity — that  it  is  too  late  !  That  lie  has  ruined 
more  souls  than  all  earth's  wickedness  combined.  It  is 
not  too  late  !  And  if  death  awaits  you  to-morrow,  it  is  not 
too  late  !  Your  life,  though  even  now  it  be  running  out 
its  last  grains  of  sand,  may  yet  bring  forth  fruit — the 
blessed  fruit  of  peace,  of  joy  unspeakable  ;  the  crown  of 
life  may  yet  be  yours. 

If  you  would  but  repent  !  Ah  !  turn,  turn  from  your 
ways,  and  seek  for  peace  where  it  is  to  be  found  ! 

Could  I  but  let  you  see  things  as  I  see  them,  you 
would  not  despair  !  Wretched,  undone,  and  lost  though 
you  feel  yourselves,  you  need  not  be  hopeless.  Despair 
has  no  right  on  earth — its  true  realm,  alas,  is  here  !  And 
here  only  it  is  ever  too  late.  Do  you  not  know  that  your 
life  on  earth  is  but  a  part,  an  infinitesimally  small  part  of 


104  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

the  existence  given  to  you,  and  that  little  is  lost  even  if 
all  earthly  hopes  have  failed  ?  I  need  not  have  said  all  ; 
for  no  man  is  left  so  entirely  desolate.  Waste  and 
ruined  though  life  may  appear  to  you,  there  is  many  a 
spot  left  where  the  waters  of  content  may  spring — where 
joy  even  for  you  may  be  found  to  be  growing,  if  you 
could  but  trust !  And  the  world  is  not  all.  Behold  the 
stars,  they  are  more  than  you  could  number.  If  the 
world  indeed  were  lost  and  earthly  life  a  failure,  what  is 
it  ?  There  are  other  worlds  awaiting  you,  a  better  life  is 
at  hand.  Look  up,  I  say,  and  despair  not !  It  is  a  lie  if 
any  one  tells  you  it  is  too  late.  It  is  not  too  late.  You 
may  yet  be  fully  satisfied.  This  is  a  truth  as  unshakable 
as  the  existence  of  God  Himself.  Repent  thee,  O  man  ! 
O  woman  !  and  turn  from  thy  ways  ;  turn  to  Him  who 
can  save  thee,  who  will  save  thee  !  However  late  it  be, 
there  is  yet  time  for  thee  to  begin  a  new  life.  But  delay 
not — ah  delay  not  to  enter  upon  the  happy  road  that  may 
lead  thee  from  star  to  star,  even  into  realms  of  joy  eternal. 
Delay  not,  I  say  ;  for  if  death  surprise  thee  on  the  road 
of  despair  with  sins  unforgiven,  heaven  and  all  its  stars 
will  fade  away  in  the  night  that  evermore  must  enwrap 
thy  soul. 

Again  I  say,  it  is  not  too  late.  Whatever  be  lost,  one 
thing  is  yet  to  be  saved — thy  hungering  soul,  her  peace, 
and  the  life  to  come. 

Have  you  lost  money  and  riches? — Your  soul  is 
immeasurably  more  precious. 

Is  your  past  a  failure,  undoing  even  your  future  ? — 
Behold  eternity,  and  work  for  that. 

Were  you  deceived  in  love  ? — Love  will  save  you  at 
the  last. 

Is  your  life  degraded  ? — Look  upon  Life  exalted  on 
the  Cross. 

Has  the  world  not  satisfied  you  ? — There  is  a  heaven 
hereafter. 

Have  earth's  joys  proved  worthless  ? — There  is  an 
eternity  to  come  ! 

How  little  then'is  lost,  even  if  it  be  your  all,  and  there 
is  still  much  to  be  gained  ?  Take  heart,  I  say,  for  verily 
it  is  not  too  late  !  There  is  yet  time  to  begin  a  new,  a 
holy,  happy,  and  even  joyful  life  ! 


LETTERS   FROM    HELL.  105 


I  have  met  her !  It  was  as  though  passing  again 
throughout  the  valley  of  death.  Shaken  to  the  soul,  I 
fell  to  the  ground,  stricken  with  remorse.  I  saw  her — 
her  against  whom  I  have  sinned  so  terribly  that  my  own 
heart  and  conscience  ever  stand  up  to  accuse  me. 

I  have  never  had  courage  to  mention  it  to  you,  my 
once  truest  friend  ;  but  I  have  always  had  a  frightful 
foreboding  that,  sooner  or  later,  I  should  meet  Annie  in 
hell.  She  whom  I  murdered,  body  and  soul.  She  is 
here,  and  I  have  seen  her ! 

I  was  strolling  about  with  an  old.  acquaintance.  "  Do 
you  know  Undine  ?  "  he  said.  "  No,"  I  replied.  "  There 
she  is,"  he  continued,  pointing  towards  a  pond  at  some 
little  distance. 

And  I  saw  a  youthful  figure,  dressed  in  the  airiest  of 
garments,  and  with  disheveled  hair.  Her  light  robe 
seemed  to  cling  to  her  figure  and  to  be  dripping  with 
water.  She  was  trying,  now  to  wring  her  wet  clothes, 
now  the  heavy  masses  of  her  hair.  She  looked  up.  I 
stood  trembling.  It  was  Annie  ! 

Annie  indeed  !  The  same  lovely  features,  the  same 
enchanting  figure,  and  yet  how  changed — how  terribly 
changed  !  The  same  features,  but  the  light  was  gone. 
Womanhood  had  fled,  the  merely  animal  had  triumphed. 
Passion,  vice  and  despair  vied  for  the  mastery.  She 
looked  much  older,  though  the  space  between  her  ruin 
and  her  death  comprised,  I  should  say,  a  few  years  only. 
I  seemed  to  have  a  knowledge  that  despair  had  driven 
her  to  a  watery  grave. 

I  stood  rooted  to  the  ground  with  horror,  as  a 
murderer  at  the  sudden  sight  of  the  gallows.  She  was 
my  work,  degraded  and  lost,  yet  lovely  once  and  pure  ! 

There  she  sat,  wringing  her  garments  and  the  tresses 
of  her  hair — and  wringing  her  hands  in  hopeless  agony  ; 
sigh  upon  sigh  breaking  as  from  a  heart  overwhelmed 
with  shame. 

I  thought  of  escaping,  feeling  as  though  a  possible 
word  from  her  must  be  a  dagger  to  kill  me.  But  I  know 
not  what  power  drove  me  towards  her.  Was  I  going  to 
throw  myself  at  her  feet  ? 

Now  only  she  perceived  me.  Darting  up,  she  gave  me 
one  look  of  loathing,  and  hurried  away.  I  could  not 


I06  T.KTTERS     FROM     HELL. 

reach  her.  The  power  of  abhorrence  alone  was  sufficient 
to  make  her  keep  me  at  a  distance.  And  presently  she 
escaped  from  my  sight  altogether,  lost  in  a  troop  of 
bewildered  spirits  just  arriving  from  the  shores  of 
death. 

I  turned  and  fled,  followed  by  the  Furies. 


LETTER   XII. 

I  HAVE  been  to  the  post-office.  That  institution  also 
is  represented  here,  as  I  found  out  quite  recently.  Truly 
nothing  is  wanting  in  this  place  except  all  that  one  needs 
in  order  to  live  and  to  hope. 

I  had  gone  to  inquire  for  letters.  There  is  something 
very  curious  about  this  post-office  of  ours.  You  have 
heard  of  what  befell  Uriah.  There  have  always  been 
people  who,  betraying  their  neighbor,  have  done  so  by 
writing.  But  the  invention  is  older  even  than  that  notor- 
ious letter,  originating,  no  doubt,  with  the  father  of  lies 
in  the  first  place.  It  was  he  who  inspired  that  piece  of 
treachery,  just  as  he  inspired  Judas'  kiss.  Treason  by 
writing  is  known  all  over  the  world  now.  There  are 
those  who  delight  in  the  cleverness  of  such  a  letter,  quite 
priding  themselves  on  the  art  of  taking  in  their  fellows. 

Be  it  known,  then,  that  every  such  letter  goes  to  hell 
at  the  expense  of  the  writer,  to  be  called  for  sooner  or 
later — not  by  the  person  to  whom  it  is  addressed,  but  by 
the  sender  ;  some  few  cases  excepted — King  David's  to 
begin  with — where  true  repentance  cancels  the  writing. 
That  is  the  meaning  of  our  post-office,  and  I  assure  you 
it  is  most  humiliating  to  be  seen  there  ;  for  even  here  one 
perceives  the  meanness  of  such  correspondence,  the 
writer's  punishment  consisting  in  having  to  read  it  over 
and  over  again  to  his  lasting  confusion. 

I  somehow  could  not  rest  till  I  had  been  to,  inquire  for 
letters  ;  to  my  great  relief  there  were  none  for  me  ! 
Bad  as  I  was,  I  had  after  all  never  been  a  Judas,  and  I 
felt  ready  to  give  thanks  for  that  assurance.  I  had  no 
real  satisfaction  in  the  feeling  ;  still,  for  a  moment,  it 
seemed  I  had. 

But  such  letters  are  not  all  :  there  are  spurious  docu- 


LETTEKi     FROM     HELL.  107 

ments  and  false  signatures  here  more  than  can  be 
counted.  Let  men  beware  how  they  put  pen  to  paper  ; 
writing  has  a  terrible  power  of  clinging  to  the  soul. 
None  but  God  Himself  can  blot  it  out. 

I  never  knew  more  than  two  people  capable  of  teach- 
ing me  patience — my  mother  and  Lily — Lily's  influence 
over  me  being  the  stronger  by  far.  My  mother's  props 
were  propriety  and  duty  ;  but  Lily  moved  me  by  that 
wonderful  goodness  of  hers,  that  sunny  warmth  that 
emanated  from  her  loving  heart.  In  the  exuberance  of 
strength  I  often  inclined  to  be  violent  and  overbearing, 
brooking  no  opposition  and  delighting  in  conquering 
obstacles,  yielding  to  the  absolutely  impossible  only 
with  clenched  fists  :  submissiveness  did  not  grace  my 
naturer  That  indomitable  spirit  of  mine  would  break 
out  at  times  upon  our  memorable  journey  to  the  south  ; 
but  on  that  journey,  also,  Lily's  power  over  me  was  fully 
apparent.  I  was  learning  from  her  daily  without  know- 
ing it,  nor  did  she  know  it,  unconscious  as  she  was  of  her 
soul's  beauty :  patience  was  one  of  the  many  good  things 
to  which  she  led  me. 

.  We  had  reached  Lucerne,  intending  to  go  over  the  St. 
Gothard  to  Italy.  I  wanted  Lily  to  have  the  full  enjoy- 
ment of  crossing  the  Alps,  there  being  to  my  mind  noth- 
ing more  beautiful  than  the  sudden  transition  from  the 
austere  north  to  the  genial  life-expanding  south  ;  and 
passing  by  the  Gothard,  or  the  Spliigen,  or  the  Simplon, 
one  can  gather  the  fullness  of  all  Italy  into  one  day  as 
it  were. 

The  weather  at  Lucerne  was  most  unfavorable,  and 
kept  us  waiting  full  eight  days.  I  chafed.  Morning 
after  morning  Lily  and  I  went  to  the  great  bridge  to 
have  a  look  at  the  sky  ;  but  little  sky  we  saw  ;  every- 
thing was  mist  and  spray,  hiding  all  prospect  of  lake  and 
mountain-top.  My  vexation  was  great  ;  day  after  day 
the  same  miserable  lookout !  I  thought  them  wretched, 
those  excursions  after  breakfast,  but  their  memory  is 
sweet.  Lily  was  leading  me  up  and  down  that  queer  old 
bridge — a  wild  animal  in  chains.  It  needed  but  the 
pressure  of  her  little  hand  and  my  grumblings  were 
silenced. 

How  clever  she  was — how  ingenious  even — in  amusing 


Io8  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

me.  Traveled  folk  will  remember  that  old-fashioned 
structure  spanning  the  Reuss  ;  it  is  covered,  and  the 
spaces  between  the  woodwork  that  supports  the  roof  are 
filled  with  antique  paintings — both  naively  conceived  and 
grotesquely  executed.  She  would  suddenly  stop  now  in 
front  of  this  picture,  now  in  front  of  that,  her  delightful 
remarks  again  and  again  restoring  my  good  humor. 

The  weather  cleared  at  last,  to  our  great  satisfaction. 
We  had  gone  to  the  bridge  earlier  than  usual,  when 
suddenly  the  mists  parted,  revealing  the  dazzling  mirror 
from  shore  to  shore  ;  and,  rolling  upward,  the  curtain  dis- 
closed the  mountain  scenery,  so  lovely,  so  grand. 
We  stood,  spellbound,  watching  the  transforma- 
tion :  the  splendid  expanse  of  water,  from  which  the 
country  rises,  height  upon  height,  mountain  upon  moun- 
tain, the  great  Alps  behind  them  lifting  their  virgin 
whiteness  in  the  radiant  air. 

The  following  morning,  then,  we  started  at  sunrise, 
crossing  the  lake  and  thinking  hopefully  of  the  Gothard. 
The  boatmen  doubted  the  weather,  but  we  hoped  for 
good  fortune,  enjoying  the  present,  which  had  steeped 
all  nature  in  floods  of  light.  How  beautiful  it  is,  how 
surpassingly  beautiful,  that  Alpine  scenery,  lifting  you 
into  high  regions,  still  and  pure  !  The  first  Alpine-rose 
nearly  cost  me  my  life — it  was  for  Lily.  We  drove  and 
walked  alternately.  It  was  a  day  the  memory  of  which 
sank  into  the  soul.  As  the  sun  went  down  we  passed 
through  the  wild  dark  glens  that  lead  to  the  valley  of 
Ursern,  the  restful  beauty  of  which,  so  simple  yet 
sublime,  opens  out  before  you  as  though  earth  glorified 
were  a  fact  already.  We  passed  the  night  in  the  little 
town  of  Andermatt.  The  following  morning — what  a 
change  !  The  boat-people  had  been  right:  snow  covered 
the  ground;  a  storm  swept  the  valley. 

My  impatience  was  by  this  fresh  delay  stung  to  frenzy. 
One  day  passed  —  another  —  a  third;  we  continued 
weather-bound.  To  take  it  quietly  was  impossible  to 
me.  I  set  out  upon  several  expeditions  by  myself  to 
explore  the  neighborhood,  fraught  with  danger  to  life 
and  limb  though  they  were.  Lily,  fearful  lest  anything 
should  befall  me,  entreated  me  to  abstain,  and  to  please 
her  I  yielded.  How  sweetly  she  set  herself  to  reward 
me  !  What  none  could  have  done,  she  did,  making  the 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  IOQ 

time  pass  pleasantly,  and  teaching  me  patience.  She 
took  me  about  the  little  town  visiting  the  people.  The 
houses  and  cottages  seemed  all  open  to  her,  and  the 
simple  folk  received  her  like  an  old  friend. 

Now  it  had  an  interest  of  its  own,  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  the  home-life  of  this  Alpine  retreat,  but, 
after  all,  Lily  was  the  centre  of  all  I  saw  and  heard. 
And  how  should  it  have  been  otherwise,  when  she  was  as 
a  sunbeam  gliding  from  house  to  house,  unutterably 
lovely  in  her  unconscious  sympathy,  calling  up  smiles 
wherever  she  went,  and  leaving  a  blessing  behind  her  ! 
I  am  sure  the  people  thought  so,  feeling  the  better  for 
having  seen  her.  Poverty  brightened  on  beholding  her, 
and  suffering  lessened;  she  seemed  welcome  everywhere; 
it  was  marvelous.  An  ordinary  observer  would  have 
said,  "  Yes,  such  is  the  power  of  youth  and  beauty." 
But  a  deeper  fascination  went  out  from  her,  since  hers 
were  higher  graces,  known  to  God. 

The  involuntary  sojourn  against  all  expectation  yielded 
its  own  gain,  enriching  life  as  with  an  idyl  brought  home 
to  our  minds  in  that  Alpine  solitude. 

Not  that  I  ceased  fretting  at  the  delay.  One  evening 
I  asked  Lily:  "  How  can  you  make  yourself  so  content- 
edly glad  in  this  wretched  place,  when  we  might  be 
spending  days  of  delight  beyond?" 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  it  is  not  difficult  Even  though  we 
are  kept  here  against  our  will,  and  the  place  seems  dull 
and  desolate  with  the  gray  mists  about  us,  yet  I  know 
that  there  is  beauty  awaiting  us  on  the  other  side  of  the 
mountain;  a  few  days  only,  a  few  hours  even,  and  we 
may  be  there." 

She  was  growing  thoughtful.  "  Philip,"  she  continued 
presently,  "does  it  not  remind  you  of  life  itself?  The 
world  often  seems  cold  and  dreary,  not  yielding  the 
sunny  warmth  one  craves.  But  then  we  do  know  that 
Paradise  is  beyond — the  true  home  prepared  for  us  in 
the  house  of  our  heavenly  Father.  As  yet  there  is  a 
mountain  between  us  and  the  place  beyond,  the  mount  of 
crucifixion,  of  denying  ourselves  ;  it  is  for  us  to  pass 
it,  and  then  we  do  reach  home,  where  earth's  troubles  are 
all  left  behind."  .  .  . 

And  before  long  we  did  find  ourselves  on  the  other 
side,  resting  from  the  journey  in  a  charming  villa  on  the 


HO  LETTERS    FROM    HELL, 

bank  of  Lago  Maggiore.  Lily  and  I  were  sitting  in  a 
pillared  hall,  listening  to  the  soft  cadence  of  the  waters, 
and  enjoying  an  indescribably  enchanting  view  of  the 
island-dotted  lake.  Mountains  framed  the  picture 
beyond,  rising  higher"  and  higher,  earth  vanishing  into 
sky — the  most  distant  heights  scarcely  to  be  distinguished 
from  the  white  clouds  on  the  sunny  horizon. 

From  seeming  mid-winter  we  had  reached  the  perfec- 
tion of  a  genial  clime.  Lily's  hands  twined  white  roses 
and  myrtles  which  she  had  gathered  about  the  place. 
She  played  with  the  flowers,  now  wreathing  them,  now 
unwreathing  them.  There  was  a  bridal  purity  about 
those  children  of  the  south,  and  Lily  was  herself  the 
sweetest  of  blossoms.  My  heart  burned  ;  I  longed  to 
seize  the  hands  that  held  the  flowers,  and  cover  them 
with  kisses,  but  a  holy  power  forbade  me.  Ever  and 
again  I  felt  as  though  some  angel  were  standing  between 
Lily  and  myself. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  I  asked,  my  voice 
betraying  my  emotion. 

"  I  ? "  she  said  gently,  lifting  her  soft  gaze,  and  my 
heart  was  stilled.  "  1  am  thinking  of  that  poor  dark 
mountain  valley  we  left  behind.  The  memory  of  it 
seems  to  enhance  the  beauty  we  now  enjoy,  deepening 
its  riches  and  our  sense  of  them.  And,  feeling  thus,  I 
cannot  but  bless  the  time  spent  on  the  other  side  of  the 
dividing  mountain,  though  it  seemed  gloomy-and  cold, 
and  the  longing  was  great. 

"  Don't  you  think,  Philip,  that  one  day  when  we  have 
reached  heaven,  we  shall  be  looking  back  with  similar 
feelings  upon  the  troubled  times  we  may  have  spent  on 
earth  ?  I  think  we  shall,  and  that  we  shall  be  able  to 
bless  them,  if  we  now  accept  them  in  patience  and  in 
hope,  looking  to  God  and  His  dear  Son.  Their  memory 
will  even  add  to  the  bliss  prepared  for  us." 

A  strange  sensation  crept  through  me  at  these 
words  of  Lily's — a  holy  tremor  I  might  call  it,  fraught 
with  pain.  Should  I  be  looking  back  some  day 
from  the  fields  of  glory,  back  upon  life  on  earth  ? 
Ah,  what  a  life  !  I  would  mend  my  ways — indeed  I 
would  ! 

But  I  never  succeeded  in  climbing  that  mountain  of 
which  Lily  had  spoken — the  mountain  of  crucifixion. 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  Ill 

Its  weight,  on  the  contrary,  is  now  upon  me,  crushing  me 
to  all  eternity. 

A  journey  through  Italy  for  a  man  of  my  description 
may  well  be  called  a  trial  of  patience.  Custom-house- 
officers,  luggage-porters,  guides,  hotel-keepers,  and  the 
whole  tribe  of  beggars  swarm  about  you  like  persecuting 
wasps.  The  miserable  greed  of  that  class  of  Italians, 
with  their  constant  attempts  at  cheating  you,  was  more 
than  I  could  brook.  I  often  felt  ready  to  thrash  every 
man  of  them  that  came  in  my  way.  But  here  also  Lily 
was  my  saving  angel.  Having  frightened  her  to  tears 
once  by  an  outbreak  of  passion,  I  felt  so  sorry  at  having 
grieved  her  that  I  was  ready  to  submit  all  traveling 
affairs  to  her  decision,  satisfied  she  should  guide  me — 
another  Una  leading  the  lion  !  She  needed  only  to 
place  her  hand  on  my  arm,  looking  at  me  with  her 
beseeching  eyes,  and  I  was  conquered,  no  matter  what 
had  been  the  provocation.  She  understood,  none  better 
than  she,  how  to  deal  with  the  meanness  that  roused  me. 
Blessings  followed  her  where  I  met  but  imprecation. 
Blessings  indeed  seemed  to  grow  up  about  her  path 
wherever  she  went,  and  the  blessing  included  me.  I  was 
growing  better — I  felt  it.  But  it  must  have  been  a 
delusive  feeling  after  all,  for  my  heart  was  never  changed. 


LETTER   XIII. 

THERE  are  very  aged  people  in  hell,  naturally.  To 
be  two  or  three  thousand  years  old,  according  to  human 
computation,  is  nothing  unusual  here.  There  are  men 
in  this  place  who  lived  in  the  time  of  Sardanapalus,  of 
Cyrus,  of  Alexander  the  Great ;  who  knew  Socrates 
perhaps,  or  Cicero,  Horace,  Seneca,  and  the  like. 
Indeed,  who  can  tell,  but  some  of  these  historic  person- 
ages themselves  are  here  !  There  are  people  here  who 
remember  the  fall  of  Nineveh,  the  sacking  of  Troy,  the 
destruction  of  Jerusalem  ;  who  consulted  the  stars  with 
the  Chaldees,  who  tended  their  flocks  in  the  days  of 
Abraham,  who  helped  to  build  the  pyramids  of  Egypt ; 
others  are  here  to  whom  Noah  preached  the  deluge. 
Hell,  then,  would  seem  to  be  a  fine  place  for  the  pursuit 


112  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

of  history;  but  somehow  no  one  cares  for  that  study 
here,  things  being  dead  in  this  place  and  void  of  interest. 
I  myself  do  not  care  in  the  least  to  become  acquainted 
with  historic  characters — the  only  longing  I  am  conscious 
of  in  this  respect,  being  to  meet  with  a  contemporary  of 
the  Saviour  of  men — one  who  saw  and  heard  Him,  I 
mean.  But  it  is  a  fruitless  desire.  1  here  are  many  here 
of  course  who  lived  in  His  day,  and  even  listened  to  His 
teaching  ;  but,,  although  they  say  they  remember,  they 
are  quite  incapable  of  imparting  anything ;  or  they  speak 
of  a  false  Messiah,  of  a  deceiver  of  the  people.  '1  here  is 
not  a  particle  of  truth  in  all  their  talk,  and  it  is  truth  1  am 
thirsting  for  so  grievously.  Is  it  not  terrible  ? 

But  I  am  wandering  from  my  subject :  I  was  going  to 
say  that  old  people  here  assure  you  that  the  atmosphere 
of  this  place  is  fast  turning  into  vapor — a  pleasant  pros- 
pect this  if  it  goes  on  ! 

Now,  I  remember  noticing  that  empty  talk  is  on  the 
increase  in  the  world.  Thoughtful  men  to  whom  I 
mentioned  the  observation  believed  cheap  literature  and 
the  so-called  education  of  the  masses  to  be  the  probable 
cause. 

A  strange  explanation  of  the  afore  named  phenomenon, 
is  it  not  ?  Vanity  of  speech  on  the  increase — a  pleasant 
prospect  truly  if  it  continues !  To  be  sure  the  world 
could  never  do  without  its  talk,  but  the  superabundance 
is  alarming  ;  a  new  deluge  threatens,  the  spirit  is  lost  in 
hollow  words.  The  world  used  to  be  more  simple,  I  am 
sure,  in  olden  times ;  straightforward  statements,  at  any 
rate,  used  to  be  current  much  more  than  they  are  now. 
Invention  in  all  spheres  is  on  the  increase,  the  invention 
of  pretences  remarkably  so.  One  feels  inclined  at  times 
to  call  out  despairingly  :  "  Words,  words,  words  !  "  as 
Hamlet  did.  I  am  sure  words  are  the  dominant  power 
nowadays  in  so-called  intellectual  pursuits  ;  it  is  not  the 
informing  spirit,  but  the  phrase,  which  is  puffed  and 
offered  for  sale.  It  has  transpired  however,  that  the 
genius  of  talk  is  prepared  to  patronize  the  genius  of 
mind,  promising  to  save  it  from  utter  neglect,  but  the 
spirit  will  have  none  of  it,  crying :  "  Let  me  die  rather 
than  be  the  slave  of  words  !  " 

Another  striking  observation  has  been  made  here  of 
late — the  number  of  women  in  hell  is  on  the  increase. 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  113 

Now  the  emptiness  of  talk  is  scarcely  a  sufficient  explana- 
tion of  this  fact,  but  a  fact  it  is.  Only  half  a  century  ago 
men  used  to  preponderate  by  far  ;  at  the  present 
moment  equality  has  very  nearly  been  attained  ;  before 
long,  I  doubt  not,  the  fairer  sex  will  outnumber  the 
stronger. 

There  is  a  reason  for  everything,  and  the  cause  of  the 
effect  in  question  will  appear  patent  to  any  one  looking 
about  him  open-eyed.  Education  is  at  fault — that  watch- 
word of  modern  times  !  We  hear  much  nowadays  of 
woman's  right  to  be  educated.  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  and 
some  few  I  believe  manage  their  own  creditable  share  of 
culture.  It  is  not  of  those  I  would  speak,  but  of  the 
training  of  girls  in  a  general  way.  How,  indeed,  do  we 
educate  them  ?  and  is  their  mind,  their  heart,  the  better 
for  the  teaching  they  get  ?  Do  we  bring  them  to  view  in 
nature  for  instance,  or  in  history,  the  external  purpose  of 
beauty  and  of  truth  ?  Are  we  anxious  that  they  should 
learn  to  distinguish  between  the  pure  and  the  impure, 
the  mean  and  the  noble,  the  paltry  and  the  truly  great  ? 
that  they  should  seek  the  ideal  in  life — ay,  their  own 
ideal,  the  crown  of  their  womanhood  ?  Is  it  truth,  is  it 
love,  we  teach  them  ?  and  above  all,  do  we  lead  them  to 
Him  who  is  truth  and  love  eternal,  their  God,  their 
Saviour  ? 

Do  we,  I  ask  ?  but  no,  this  is  not  the  so-called  first- 
class  education  our  girls  get  for  all  their  governesses  and 
finishing-masters !  Our  girls,  coming  forth  from  the 
schoolroom,  will  jabber  their  two  or  three  foreign 
tongues,  will  rattle  away  on  the  piano,  or  sing  a  song, 
and  happy  are  the  ears  that  need  not  hear  it !  Our  girls, 
moreover,  are  found  to  have  a  smattering  of  things  in 
general,  enabling  them  to  venture  on  all  sorts  of  topics 
concerning  which  they  are  profoundly  ignorant  ;  our 
girls  are  supposed  to  have  acquired  style  and  deportment 
to  boot ;  the  art  of  dress  being  neither  last  nor  least. 
Every  fold  of  their  garments  assumes  a  vital  importance  ; 
but  concerning  the  bent  of  their  hearts,  who  takes  the 
trouble  to  inquire  ? 

It  is  vanity,  and  their  education  a  farce.  Poor  girls  ! 
poor  women  !  You  are  worse  off,  I  say,  in  these  days  of 
culture  than  you  were  in  the  darkest  of  ages  when  no 
one  dreamt  you  needed  teaching.  In  those  days  you 


— 

114  LETTERS     FROM    HELL. 

were  looked  upon  as  though  you  had  no  souls;  time 
righted  you,  and  it  was  allowed  you  were  not  mere 
puppets.  Now  you  are  being  varnished  over  by  way  of 
education,  till  your  soul  lies  encrusted  beneath. 

The  good  old  times,  after  all,  were  best.  Our  grand- 
mothers were  brought  up  for  home  duties  chiefly,  and 
books  were  few  beyond  their  Bibles  and  their  catechism. 
Women  knew  their  calling;  they  accepted  it  at  the  hands 
of  God,  and  were  happy  in  doing  their  duty.  But  now — 
how  of  it  ?  the  clearest  notion  which  girls  and,  I  fear, 
many  women,  have  of  duty  nowadays  is,  that  it  is  a 
bore. 

And  what  is  life,  as  they  take  it  ?  Is  it  not  to  amuse 
themselves  as  long  as  possible,  to  play  lawn  tennis  all 
day  and  every  day,  to  catch  a  husband  and  have  sweet 
little  babies — little  dears,  images  of  their  mother,  of 
course — to  be  fashionable,  shining  in  society,  till  old  age 
overtakes  them;  is  not  that  it?  But  there  remains  one 
thing  which  is  never  mentioned — they  may  die  any  day 
and  wake  up  in  hell ! 

Earth,  truly,  presents  a  variety  of  schools  preparatory 
for  hell ;  those  which  men  frequent  are  bad  enough,  but 
those  for  women — let  angels  weep  ! 

I  went  for  a  walk  lately,  passing  by  the  gates  of  hell. 
Understand  me  aright;  I  am  not  speaking  of  those  awful 
gates  of  hell  set  up  in  defiance  of  the  Lord  of  heaven 
Himself,  though  they  cannot  prevail.  They  are  in  the 
abyss  I  have  spoken  of,  which  is  a  far  more  dreadful 
place  than  this  abode  of  death.  I  only  mean  that  I 
passed  near  the  entrance  of  Hades. 

An  entrance  truly  it  is,  for  of  your  own  free  will  you 
never  get  out,  wide  open  though  you  find  it.  I  cannot 
tell  whether  I  contemplated  anything  like  an  escape;  I 
only  know  that  on  approaching  a  certain  boundary  line 
an  awful  "  Stop  ! "  resounded,  and  I  slunk  back  terrified. 

No  one,  then,  passes  out,  save  under  dread  compul- 
sion; but  there  is  a  flocking  in  continuously.  I  forget 
what  they  say  of  the  death-rate  in  the  world,  is  it  every 
minute  or  every  second  that  a  human  soul  goes  to 
eternity  ?  Be  it  as  it  may,  it  is  a  terrible  fact  that  the 
greater  part  of  those  who  die  present  themselves  at  these 
gates  of  hopelessness.  There  is  not  a  more  appalling 
sight  in  all  hell  than  watching  this  entrance  !  The  space 


LETTERS    FROM    HE*LL.  11$ 

beyond  is  wrapt  in  a  shadowy  mist,  out  of  which  lost 
souls  are  constantly  emerging,  singly  or  in  troops,  dawn- 
ing upon  your  vision.  They  are  all  equally  naked,  dif- 
fering but  in  sex  and  in  age.  The  beggar  and  the  king 
are  not  to  be  known  from  one  another,  both  arriving  in 
like  miserable  nakedness.  That  abject  misery  is  the 
common  mark  of  unredeemed  humanity,  set  upon  all  the 
children  of  Adam  coming  hither,  no  matter  what  station 
was  theirs  in  life.  They  have  all  come  by  the  same 
road,  broad  and  pleasant  at  first,  but  terrible  at  its  latter 
end.  As  they  approach  the  gates  they  are  seized  with 
fear  and  trembling,  and  pass  them  in  an  agony  and 
despair. 

The  love  of  pleasure  nowadays  scarcely  stops  short  of 
the  harassing;  men  love  to  feast  upon  anything  that 
excites  their  unhealthy  fancy.  But  I  assure  you  I  have 
not  sunk  to  that  state  of  callousness  which  could  look 
upon  the  dreadful  scene  unmoved.  "  All  these  are  com- 
ing to  share  my  misery  !  "  I  cried.  Say  not  it  was  com- 
placency clothed  in  pity;  there  was  something  not 
altogether  mean  in  my  sympathy.  I  could  have  wept 
for  them,  as  I  long  to  weep  for  myself. 

Yet,  after  all,  I  felt  fascinated  by  the  sight,  and  tore 
myself  away  with  difficulty;  the  picture,  I  knew,  would 
pursue  me  into  whatever  solitude  I  might  plunge. 

How  rich  is  life,  how  full  of  enjoyment !  I  see  it  now 
where  nothing  is  left  to  comfort  the  soul.  My  life,  I  too 
cannot  but  own,  was  overflowing  with  blessings;  how 
many  moments  I  can  call  to  mind  that  seemed  welling 
over  with  content ! 

The  sound  of  a  certain  bell  comes  back  to  my  inward 
ear.  I  hear  it  ringing,  ringing,  and  its  peals  vibrate 
through  my  inmost  soul.  It  is  the  bell  of  even-song,  to 
which  I  loved  to  listen  in  days  gone  by.  And  as  I  hear 
it,  the  sounds  call  up  a  scene  of  beauty  rich  with  the 
hues  of  memory.  I  see  waving  cornfields,  like  sheets 
of  gold  between  the  sombre  woodlands  and  the  winding 
stream;  I  see  towering  mountains  lifting  their  rocky 
heights  into  the  burnished  colors  of  the  west;  I  see  the 
sun  sinking  on  the  horizon,  vanishing  in  a  wealth  of 
roseate  sheen.  And  twilight  spreads  her  wings,  a  deep 
holy  calm  enwrapping  nature.  I  say  a  holy  calm,  for 
the  sounds  of  the  ringing  bell  are  burdened  with  a  mes- 


Il6  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

sage  of  peace.  The  smoke  ascends  from  the  cottages 
about,  and  the  incense  of  prayer  rises  from  many  a  heart. 
Those  whom  love  unites  gather  in  unity.  The  children 
nestle  by  their  mother's  knee  awaiting  the  father  return- 
ing from  work.  And  when  he  has  come,  they  close  the 
door  upon  the  outside  world,  upon  the  troubles  and 
hardships  too  that  daily  life  may  bring.  Or  if  some 
cause  of  care  will  not  be  banished,  there  is  love  at  hand 
to  deal  with  it;  yea,  it  helps  to  nurture  that  love  whose 
deepest  roots  are  sunk  in  sorrow. 

Would  I  were  that  poor  laborer  returning  from  the 
field  he  tills  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow;  or  that  barefooted 
youth  keeping  the  cattle  on  the  lea ! 

The  evening  bell  continues  ringing,  ringing,  to  my 
ear;  but  the  message  it  carries  now  is: 

"  Too  late  !  too  late  !  " 

Ah,  little  bell,  my  longing  is  turned  to  despair ! 


LETTER   XIV. 

I  THINK  of  my  childhood.  It  is  the  eve  of  Aunt 
Betty's  birthday.  My  present  had  been  waiting  for  ever 
so  long  ;  I  gloated  over  it  in  secret  with  distracted  feel- 
ings ;  I  would  not  for  worlds  have  betrayed  it  premature- 
ly, yet  I  longed  to  let  her  guess  at  the  surprise  in  store 
for  her.  Thus  divided  in  my  childish  mind  I  sought  her 
little  room  in  the  twilight. 

She  was  not  there,  and  I  grew  impatient.  I  must 
needs  look  for  something  to  amuse  me.  But  there  was 
nothing  that  owned  the  charm  of  novelty.  I  gazed  about, 
yawning,  when  a  large  moth  on  the  window  caught  my 
eye.  That  called  me  to  action,  and,  forgetful  of  all 
Aunt  Betty's  pious  injunctions  to  leave  God's  creatures 
unmolested,  I  forthwith  began  the  chase.  Nor  was  it 
long  before  I  had  caught  the  hapless  insect ;  it  fluttered 
anxiously,  but  I  held  it  fast,  bent  upon  examining  it, 
when  suddenly  Aunt  Betty  entered.  Overtaken  in  my 
boyish  cruelty,  I  closed  my  hand  upon  the  little  prisoner, 
and  stood  trembling. 

Aunt  Betty  however,  did  not  seem  to  notice  that  I  was 
ill  at  ease,  and  turned  to  me  with  her  usual  kindness.  I 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  117 

felt  very  miserable,  and  conversation  would  not  flow,  so 
she  told  me  a  story,  her  usual  device  when  she  thought  I 
needed  rousing.  Now,  whatever  her  stories  might  have 
been  worth, — and  they  were  not  by  any  means  always 
inventions  of  genius, — they  were  sure  to  culminate  in 
some  sort  of  moral  which  never  failed  to  impress  me. 
Aunt  Betty's  story  on  this  occasion  led  up  to  the  state- 
ment— God  seeth  thee  ! 

The  words  fell  on  me  like  judgment ;  involuntarily  I 
hid  my  hand  behind  my  back,  my  heart  beating,  ready  to 
burst. 

"You  must  know,  dearest,"  Aunt  Betty  went  on  un- 
consciously, '-that  God  sits  upon  His  throne,  an  angel 
on  His  right  hand,  and  another  on  His  left,  each  having 
a  book  before  him.  And  the  angel  to  the  right  marks 
down  all  the  good,  however  little,  which  man  strives  to 
do  while  he  lives  on  earth  ;  that  angel  is  always  smiling  a 
heavenly  smile.  But  the  angel  on  the  left  is  full  of  weep- 
ing, as  he  notes  down  the  evil  deeds  of  men.  And  at  the 
last  day,  when  the  great  reckoning  has  come,  a  voice  is 
heard  from  the  throne — '  Give  up  the  books  ! '  And  then 
our  deeds  are  examined  ;  if  there  is  more  evil  than  good, 
and  we  have  not  repented  of  it  humbly,  and  received 
forgiveness  of  sin,  it  will  go  ill  with  us  !  We  shall  be  for 
ever  wailing  in  the  evil  place." 

This  ending  of  auntie's  story  troubled  me  greatly.  I 
pressed  my  hand  together  closer  and  closer,  feeling  at 
the  same  time  as  though  a  live  coal  were  burning  my 
palm.  It  was  conscience  which  burned.  The  poor  moth 
must  have  been  dead  long  before,  yet  I  felt  as  though  it 
were  still  fluttering  within  my  grasp,  trying  to  free  itself 
from  the  unkind  hold.  "  God  seeth  all  things,"  said 
auntie  ;  "  and  we  must  answer  to  Him  for  all  our  deeds 
at  the  last  day  !  "  Self-control  was  at  an  end  ;  a  flood  of 
tears  came  to  the  rescue  ;  and,  unable  to  say  a  single 
word,  I  held  out  my  palm  to  Aunt  Betty,  the  crushed 
moth  witnessing  against  me. 

She  understood  at  once,  and  drawing  me  to  her 
heart  she  first  pointed  to  the  wrong  of  cruelty;  but  added 
her  own  sweet  words  of  consolation,  that  God  would 
forgive  me  if  my  tears  could  tell  Him  I  was  sorry.  But 
I  was  not  able  at  once  to  grasp  this  assurance,  sobbing 
piteously.  Never  was  there  anything  more  tender,  or 


Il8  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

more  full  of  love,  than  Aunt  Betty's  ways  when  com- 
fort was  needed.  And  presently  she  made  me  kneel 
down  and  ask  God  to  forgive  me.  It  was  she  who 
prayed,  I  repeating  the  words  after  her.  But  they  came 
from  my  heart,  and  never  was  there  more  sincere 
repentance. 

And  then  she  told  me  another  story,  and  that  story, 
too,  had  its  moral.  Pressing  me  close  to  her  heart  she 
exhorted  me  to  look  to  God  in  all  my  doings,  and  turn 
to  Him  in  prayer  my  life  long.  Whenever  I  had  done 
anything  amiss  I  should  tell  Him  so  with  a  penitent 
heart,  begging  Him  to  forgive  me,  and  promising  Him 
sincerely  that  I  .would  try  not  to  do  so  again.  Then  the 
Lord  God  would  pity  me  in  His  mercy,  and  I  need  not 
fear  the  dreadful  book. 

As  for  the  poor  moth,  we  buried  it  sorrowfully  in  one 
of  auntie's  flower-pots.  We  gave  it  a  coffin  of  rose  leaves, 
so  that  the  mangled  corpse  need  not  be  touched  by  the 
covering  earth. 

My  heart  was  light  again  when  I  left  the  little  room. 
But  all  that  night  I  was  troubled  in  dreams.  Again  and 
again  I  heard  the  dreadful  words,  "  Give  up  the  books  !  " 
And,  waking,  I  sat  up  in  bed  to  find  myself  in  the  dark. 
I  had  never  known  before  what  it  was  to  be  afraid  of  the 
dark  ;  now  I  knew. 

The  following  morning,  as  soon  as  I  was  dressed,  I  ran 
to  Aunt  Betty's  door,  finding  it  locked  contrary  to  habit. 
"  It  is  me,  auntie  !  "  I  cried,  and  was  admitted  directly. 
But  I  stood  still,  amazed  ;  the  tears  ran  down  Aunt 
Betty's  face.  On  the  table  before  her  there  was  the  most 
marvelous  array  of  queer  old  things,  which  I  did  not 
remember  ever  having  seen.  Indeed,  such  was  my 
amazement  and,  I  must  add,  my  grief,  that  I  forgot  all 
about  the  precious  present  I  had  come  to  deliver.  Mr 
first  clear  idea  was  that  Aunt  Betty  too  perchance  might 
have  crushed  a  moth  ;  but  a  brighter  thought  supervened. 
"Auntie,"  I  whispered,  pressing  close  to  her,  "didn't 
you  say  last  night  that  God  seeth  all  things  ?  Does  He 
see  you  are  crying  ? " 

Aunt  Betty  started,  a  flood  of  light  illumining  her 
features  : 

"Yes,  darling,"  she  said,  "  thank  you  !  He  does  know 
all  things  and  He  knows  my  tears  ;  it  is  very  wrong  of 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  1 19 

me  to  forget  it.  He  does  not  only  know  them,  but  He 
counts  them  !  " 

And  quickly  she  dried  them,  showing  me  her  own  old 
smiling  face. 

"  Can  you  not  see,  my  child,  how  the  Lord  has  wiped 
them  away  ?  He  needs  but  look  upon  poor  human  eyes 
and  they  cease  crying." 

"  But  why  did  you  cry,  auntie  ? " 

"  That  is  more  than  you  could  understand,  dearie.  I 
am  forty  years  old  this  day,  but  why  need  I  cry  ?  why 
should  I,  even  if  I  were  an  old  maid  of  sixty  or  eighty  ? 
ay,  and  if  He  will  have  me  live  till  I  am  a  hundred,  I 
will  not  murmur.  Come  and  sit  down  by  me,  that  I  may 
talk  to  you."  And  she  began  : 

"  Years  ago,  my  child,  there  was  a  young  girl  as  pretty 
as  she  was  foolish.  She  believed  the  world  to  be 
indescribably  beautiful,  and  that  all  its  glories  were  wait- 
ing to  be  showered  into  her  lap.  There  was  no  harm  in 
this  illusion  in  itself  ;  but  it  was  hurtful  because 
altogether  untrue.  The  world  is  not  meant  to  be  so 
delightful  to  any  of  us.  The  girl  herself  was  really 
pretty,  and  when  people  told  her  so,  she  would  cast 
down  her  eyes,  feeling  as  though  she  must  sink  into  the 
ground  for  shyness. 

"  There  was  one  especially  who  told  her  so  times  with- 
out number.  And  he  was  beautiful  without  a  doubt — 
strong,  manly,  and  winning.  He  was  a  sailor.  It  was  a 
time  of  war,  and  he  commanded  a  privateer. 

"  She  loved  him  dearly,  with  all  her  heart.  There  was 
a  ball  one  day — do  you  know  what  a  ball  is?  It  is  a 
queer  thing — a  mixture  of  angelic  delight  and  devilish 
invention.  One  is  carried  along,  floating,  as  it  were,  in 
the  airy  spaces  between  heaven  and  earth  and  hell — at 
least  /  think  so.  ...  Well,  when  the  ball  was  over  he 
entreated  her  for  one  of  her  gloves.  There  was  nothing 
she  could  have  refused  him  at  that  moment,  I  believe. 
He  had  it — and  here  you  see  its  fellow  !  " 

And  she  showed  me  number  one  of  her  relics — an 
ancient  kid  glove. 

"  But  the  young  girl's  parents  said  he  was  an  adven- 
turer and  not  fit  to  marry  into  a  respectable  family. 
That  was  her  first  grief.  Still  he  had  her  heart ;  she 
said  she  would  never  love  another,  and  they  were 


120  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

permitted  at  last  to  be  engaged  to  one  another.  This  is 
the  ring  he  gave  her  ! 

"  Now  she  swam  in  happiness.  One  voice  only  in  all 
the  universe  had  power  over  her  heart,  and  that  voice  was 
his.  It  might  have  been  true  that  he  was  not  without 
many  and  grave  faults,  but  she  loved  him  just  as  he  was. 
He  might  have  sunk  lower  and  lower,  I  believe  she 
would  have  loved  him  still.  For,  once  the  heart  has  been 
given  away  truly — but  that  is  more  than  you  can  under- 
stand. Well,  he  went  to  sea,  and  returned.  It  was 
a  splendid  vessel  which  he  commanded,  the  "  Viking," 
they  called  it.  One  capture  after  another  he  made,  and 
grew  rich  upon  the  prizes  taken.  But  people  said  money 
never  remained  with  him  ;  he  was  careless,  and  prone  to 
gambling.  This  is  the  ship  !  " 

She  showed  me  a  little  picture  representing  a  schooner 
skimming  over  the  bluest  of  seas. 

"  His  absence  sometimes  was  long.  But  they 
exchanged  letters  whenever  opportunity  offered — such 
letters  !  All  her  soul  was  in  hers.  And  as  for  his — 
well,  here  they  are  !  " 

She  pointed  to  a  packet  of  faded  letters,  carefully  tied 
together  with  a  once  rose-colored  ribbon. 

"  And  then  there  came  a  time  when  news  ceased. 
What  she  felt  and  suffered  in  those  sad  days  I  cannot 
tell  you.  At  last  she  heard  again.  He  was  ill — the 
letter  said — very  ill  in  a  foreign  seaport.  Winter  was 
approaching,  but  she  would  not  be  deterred.  Taking 
her  trusted  maid  with  her,  she  set  out  upon  the  journey, 
and  found  him  in  misery.  He  had  been  wounded  in  a 
duel — what  that  is  you  need  not  know,  but  here  is  the 
bullet  ! 

"  She  nursed  him  and  he  recovered  ;  she  freed  him 
from  his  liabilities,  paid  all  his  debts.  Full  of  contrition, 
and  with  a  new  heart  apparently,  he  returned  with  her ; 
his  promises  satisfied  her  and  her  family.  He  would 
give  up  privateering,  and  take  the  command  of  a 
merchantman  instead.  She  should  go  with  him  as  his 
wife. 

"  Once  more  they  were  to  separate  and  then  be  united 
for  life.  He  went  to  visit  his  relations  and  settle  his 
affairs. 

"  The  weeks    passed,   the   wedding-day  approached. 


LETTERS  FRO&T  HELL.  121 

Happy  hour  that  should  crown  her  hopes,  heal  her  griefs, 
and  reward  her  for  all  past  suffering  !  The  wedding- 
dress  was  ready.  This  is  the  wreath — do  you  know  the 
bridal  blossoms  ?  Poor  wreath,  it  is  faded  now  and 
shriveled,  but  it  will  last,  I  think,  while  two  eyes  are  left 
to  look  upon  it  fondly,  for  the  sake  of  the  love  that 
came  and  went. 

"  There  was  another  letter.  He  had  set  out  to  join 
her,  but  turned  half-way,  never  to  see  her  again.  Here 
is  that  saddest  of  letters  ;  what  tears  it  cost  her — what 
pangs — to  answer  it ! 

"  Was  he  wicked  ?  I  do  not  think  so,  but  very  reck- 
less. He  had  surrounded  himself  with  difficulties,  and 
there  was  only  one  way  out  of  them  :  some  heart  must 
be  broken.  His  uncle,  who  adopted  him,  had  a 
daughter — God  bless  her  !  He  had  engaged  himself 
twice  over  ;  men,  I  fear,  can  do  such  things.  He  could 
redeem  his  pledge  to  only  one.  He  did  his  duty  by  her, 
who  perhaps  had  suffered  most  for  him,  and  who — but 
let  that  pass.  They  say  that  he  reformed  and  made  a 
good  husband.  I  trust  the  Lord  has  forgiven  him  the 
sins  of  his  youth. 

"  But  for  that  other  one,  who  gladly  would  have 
sacrificed  her  all  for  his  sake,  happiness  was  dead  and 
gone,  her  beauty  fading  with  her  hopes.  She  grew  old, 
and  people  began  to  find  her  plain.  She  had  nothing 
left  to  live  for — in  herself  I  mean — so  she  lived  for 
others.  The  world  is  bad,  but  men  need  sympathy  ;  they 
are  not  all  bad,  but  many  are  unhappy,  suffering,  and 
poor.  The  old  maid  has  found  comfort  in  God,  her 
Lord  and  Saviour." 

She  stopped,  and  set  herself  carefully  to  pack  up  her 
treasures. 

That  accomplished,  she  turned  to  me  smiling  : 

"  I  have  done  for  a  year  !  "  she  said  ;  "  let  us  think  of 
breakfast  now." 

I,  of  course,  had  not  taken  in  the  meaning  of  her 
story,  nor  was  there  any  need.  She  had  felt  a  longing 
to  unburden  herself  to  human  ears ;  she  had  done  so, 
yet  her  secret  was  hers. 

Now  I  remember  her  words,  understanding  them  as 
I  did  not  then  ;  I  am  able  to  enter  into  her  feelings 
now — those  feelings  of  her  fortieth  birthday,  when 


122  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

she,  the  so-called  old  maid,  poured  out  her  heart  to 
the  child. 

At  dinner  Aunt  Betty  appeared  unusually  gay,  making 
the  funniest  little  speeches,  and  keeping  us  in  the  best 
of  humor  all  that  day. 

But  those  words  of  hers  "  God  seeth  thee,"  would 
return  to  me  often,  even  in  later  years.  They  had  been 
words  of  comfort  to  my  pious  old  aunt ;  to  me  they 
sounded  as  the  trumpets  of  judgment,  so  different  was  I 
from  her  !  And  then  the  time  came  when  I  learnt  to 
disregard  those  words  entirely — when  it  was  nothing  to 
me  to  crush  many  a  creature  of  God's  making,  that 
because  of  my  touch  never  would  lift  wing  again. 

To  pass  the  time  seems  to  be  one  of  the  chief  objects 
in  life,  and  how  to  pass  it  a  question  on  which  the  most 
ingenious  inventions  have  been  brought  to  bear. 
Whether  the  wickedness  or  the  folly  of  the  endeavor  is 
the  more  deplorable  is  difficult  to  say.  There  are  few 
phrases  showing  the  perversity  of  the  world  more  fully 
than  this  current  expression,  to  pass  the  time  !  Time  arid 
life  are  inseparable  ;  men  want  to  live  ;  they  consequently 
try  to  pass  away  the  time,  and  yet  it  is  time  which  yields 
the  fullness  of  existence,  be  it  in  sorrow  or  in  joy.  To 
pass  the  time  is  considered  to  live ;  but  at  the  end  of 
time  stands  Death,  with  hour-glass  and  sickle,  waiting 
for  the  last  grains  to  run  out.  Passing  the  time,  then, 
may  be  tantamount  to  slow  self-murder.  Men  are 
anxious  to  pass  it  away  as  though  it  were  a  frightful 
monster — an  enemy  to  life  and  its  enjoyment — never 
thinking  that  the  real  enemy  may  be  coming  when  time 
has  vanished.  If  people  would  but  understand  that  time 
is  their  most  precious  gift — a  grace  of  heavenly  fullness 
— and  that  all  the  treasures  of  the  East  can  never  make 
up  for  a  day  wasted,  for  an  hour  lost !  And  if  a  single 
hour  may  be  so  rich  in  blessing,  what  then  must  time 
itself  be  worth,  lying  before  us  as  a  shoreless  ocean  ? 
But  the  entire  blessedness  of  the  gift  will  come  to  the 
believing  heart  only  in  the  kingdom  to  come,  where  Love 
rules  which  made  the  time. 

In  hell,  where  everything  is  seen  in  its  own  true  light, 
the  passing  of  time,  or  rather  time  passed,  assumes  an 
awful  significance ;  for  truth  and  reality  are  upon  us. 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  .  123 

It  was  time  which,  for  us  also,  included  the  largess  of 
life — the  manifold  blessings  shed  abroad  by  the  hand  of 
God.  Time  is  past  now,  and  hope  has  fled.  Ay,  we 
ourselves  are  thrust  out  of  it,  never  to  enter  again  ;  time 
for  us  has  vanished,  leaving  existence  behind. 

One  of  the  great  sources  of  amusement  on  earth  for 
the  beguiling  of  dull  time  is  the  theatre.  Well,  we  too 
have  a  theatre,  though  time  with  us  needs  no  more 
whiling  away.  Old  habit  only  is  its  raison  d'etre. 
Women  need  something  to  incite  their  fancy,  men  some- 
thing to  meet  their  craving — not  to  mention  the  question 
of  food  for  fashionable  conversation.  There  is  no 
weather  here  to  be  talked  of,  so  we  must  fall  back  upon 
the  theatre. 

Acting  with  us  is  carried  out  in  a  magnificent  if 
peculiar  style,  the  like  of  which  is  not  possible  in  the 
world,  not  even  in  Paris,  that  city  of  theatres.  True,  we 
are  poor  in  dramatic  works,  for  not  many  plays  of  poet's 
invention  are  so  glaringly  immoral  that  they  are  fit  for 
hell ;  the  greater  number  being  vapid  rather  than  wicked, 
no  one  cares  for  them  here.  But  we  have  resources  out- 
doing anything  dreamt  of  by  stage  managers  upon  earth; 
for  we  nearly  always  act  life — real  occurrences  that  is — 
the  actors  being  the  very  perpetrators  of  the  thing  set  in 
scene.  That  is  to  say,  they  commit  over  again  on  hell's 
stage  the  deeds  of  their  earthly  life.  The  theatre-going 
public  with  us  then  do  not  feed  upon  imagination,  but  on 
reality,  the  child  of  illusion. 

Of  stage  managers  there  is  no  lack,  but  theirs  is  no 
enviable  task.  It  needs  their  utmost  exertion  to  outdo 
one  another  in  producing  things  horrible  or  piquant;  for 
people  here  also  desire  to  be  tickled,  M™/  though  they 
be.  So  the  harassed  manager  rushes  about  seeking  for 
some  spicy  occurrence,  some  sensational  wickedness  ; 
and  having  got  it,  he  must  look  for  the  men  and  women 
who  did  it,  though  they  be  roaming  in  the  farthermost 
places  of  hell.  Find  them  he  must,  and  having  found 
them,  there  is  no  help  for  them;  they  must  play  their 
part. 

Let  me  give  an  example.  There  is  a  piece  which  made 
a  great  hit  here  lately,  called  the  "Jewel  Robbery,"  a 
most  Satanic  mixture  of  seduction,  murder  and  theft. 
A  handsome  woman,  good-natured,  but  silly,  is  inten- 


124  LETTERS  FROM   HELL. 

tionally  led  astray,  as  a  means  only;  the  object  being  a 
famous  robbery,  necessitating  two  frightful  murders 
besides.  A  piece  full  of  the  most  unwholesome  effect, 
you  see,  and  not  invented  by  exaggerating  playwright's 
fancy;  but  a  reproduction,  in  all  minutest  details  even, 
of  horrible  facts.  The  daily  papers  were  full  of  it  at  the 
time.  They  are  all  here  who  were  mixed  up  in  it,  con- 
tinuing to  play  the  part  that  brought  them  hither.  You 
will  understand  from  this  that  we  could  not  act  virtuous 
pieces  even  if  the  audience  desired  them;  the  needful 
actors  not  being  here. 

Our  theatre,  nevertheless,  plainly  has  the  advantage, 
since  murderers,  villains,  and  profligates  are  here  to  take 
their  parts,  and  all  the  pieces  given  are  scenes  of  actual 
life;  our  dramatis  persotice,  then,  though  forced  to  play, 
do  so  with  singular  vivacity  and  truthfulness.  If  good 
people  are  required,  by  way  of  dupes  and  victims,  we 
fall  back  upon  hypocrites  who  delight  in  the  opportunity 
of  showing  forth  their  special  talents,  and  indeed  they 
manage  their  assumed  character  very  cleverly. 

Moral  laws  naturally  are  quite  out  of  the  question; 
there  is  no  eventual  victory  of  goodness,  nor  need  the 
triumph  of  wickedness  be  sustained.  Play-acting  in  hell 
is  quite  independent  of  rules,  either  moral  or  dramatic, 
pieces  simply  being  carried  to  the  point  they  reached 
in  life. 

The  scenery  is  unrivaled, — illusion  of  course,  but  the 
illusion  is  perfect.  It  is  quite  within  our  power  to 
imagine  the  surroundings  of  the  original  plot,  mere 
jugglery,  but  appearing  most  real.  These  scenes  some- 
times are  wonderfully  impressive,  and  many  a  spectator, 
at  the  unexpected  sight  of  well-known  places,  falls  a  prey 
to  hopeless  longing. 

So,  effective,  as  these  representations  are,  they  are  a 
torment  alike  to  actor  and  audience.  In  this  also  we  are 
driven  to  own  the  one  awful  law  that  makes  inclination 
here  a  terrible  compulsion — not  leaving  so  much  as  a 
desire  even  that  it  might  be  otherwise. 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  125 


LETTER   XV. 

SHOULD  the  idea  present  itself  to  you  to  publish  these 
letters,  you  have  my  full  permission  for  doing  so — not 
that  I  write  them  with  this  view  primarily.  People  very 
likely  will  doubt  their  genuineness.  "  Even  supposing 
souls  in  hell  were  permitted  to  write  letters,"  they  will 
say,  "how  should  their  epistles  reach  the  upper  world?" 

People  are  strangely  inconsistent.  No  man  lives  who 
has  not  heard  of  spirits  and  ghosts,  while  a  great  many 
actually  believe  in  supernatural  appearances.  Now  sup- 
posing there  are  ghosts,  why  should  not  ghost  letters  be 
conceivable  ?  And  what  more  natural  than  to  imagine 
that  some  restless  spirit,  permitted  to  revisit  former 
scenes,  should  somehow  mediate  such  communication  ? 

Such  is  indeed  the  fact  in  the  present  case.  Count 
the  letters  you  have  had  from  me,  and  be  sure  that  so 
many  ghosts  have  been  to  your  dwelling.  Do  not  be 
horrified  !  I  do  not  entrust  my  confessions  to  any  wan- 
dering sou!,  but  only  to  respectable  spirits.  Indeed,  if 
the  natural  shrinking  of  mortal  man  were  not  in  your 
way,  you  might  find  some  of  them  worth  the  knowing. 
In  any  case  I  pledge  them  to  polite  behavior,  that  they 
shall  nowi=e  harass  you,  but  do  their  errand  unseen. 
Not  all  ghosts  have  a  character  for  worrying  mortals; 
some,  on  the  contrary,  are  exceedingly  trustworthy,  and 
could  be  sent  anywhere. 

Know,  then,  that  whenever  you  fiud  yourself  possessed 
of  fresh  news  from  me,  some  ghost  has  been  to  your 
house  that  night.  Did  you  not  find  a  letter  beneath 
your  desk  lately — on  the  floor  I  mean  ?  This  is  how  it 
was.  On  leaving  off  writing  the  evening  before,  you  left 
your  pen  and  pencil  crosswise  on  the  table — quite  by 
accident,  I  dare  say;  but  my  messenger,  on  perceiving 
the  holy  sign,  was  seized  with  such  a  fit  of  trembling  that 
he  dropped  the  letter  and  sped  away.  And  while  I  am 
about  it,  I  would  ask  you  to  get  rid  of  the  supernumerary 
cocks  in  your  farmyard;  the  piercing  call  of  the  bird  of 
dawn  may  be  all  very  well  in  your  ears,  but  to  us  it  bears 
a  terrible  warning,  reminding  us  of  a  day  to  come,  the 
day  of  resurrection  and  doom,  which  we  know  must 
come,  however  distant  it  be. 


I  26  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

My  handwriting  I  dare  say  is  not  very  legible;  I  trust 
you  will  excuse  it.  There  is  not  a  pen  to  be  had  here 
but  what  has  been  worn  out  in  the  service  of  falsehood 
or  injustice.  The  paper  too  is  wretched.  I  could  find 
nothing  but  some  old  documents  to  serve  the  purpose, 
and  upon  examining  them  more  closely  I  do  believe  they 
are  nothing  less  than  the  false  decretals  of  853 — nice 
material  to  write  on  !  As  for  ink,  alas,  my  friend,  what 
should  you  say  if  it  were  my  very  heart-blood  I  write 
with  ?  It  is  black  enough  truly. 

I  need  not  tell  you  that  my  letters  will  not  bear 
keeping.  They  fade  away  in  daylight.  You  can  only 
preserve  their  contents  by  copying  them  on  the 
spot. 

This  present  letter  I  intend  forwarding  to  you  by  the 
hand  of  a  remarkable  personage — one  of  the  many  inter- 
esting acquaintances  I  have  made  here — who  is  about  to 
revisit  the  earth.  He  is  one  of  the  famous  knights  of 
Charles  the  Bold,  who  met  their  death  by  the  brave 
lances  of  the  Swiss  at  the  battle  of  Murten.  Proud  and 
noble  is  his  bearing,  and  he  goes  fully  armed,  from  the 
spur  on  his  heel  to  the  plume  on  his  helmet ;  but  the 
spurs  do  not  clink,  and  the  plume  will  not  wave.  He 
carefully  keeps  his  visor  closed,  so  that  I  have  no  knowl- 
edge of  his  face,  although  I  seem  to  know  him  intimately 
from  his  conversation.  I  believe  he  feels  ashamed.  He 
cannot  forget  that  he,  the  famous  champion,  renowned 
for  many  a  victorious  encounter,  met  his  death  by  the 
hand  of  an  ordinary  peasant. 

It  is  the  consciousness  of  his  high  dignity  which 
prevents  him  from  mixing  freely  with  people.  He  lives 
like  a  hermit  almost,  immured  in  his  own  pride.  It  was 
mere  accident  that  gained  me  his  notice.  I  was 
delivering  a  panegyric  in  some  public  locality  concerning 
the  merits  of  the  wine  of  Beaune,  stating  that  I  had 
drunk  it  on  the  spot.  When  the  company  had  dispersed 
I  found  myself  alone  with  him  of  the  armor. 

"  You  have  been  to  Burgundy  ? "  he  queried,  hollow- 
voiced. 

"I  have,  sir." 

"  And  to  Beaune  near  Dijon  ?  " 

"  I  have,  sir  knight." 

"  Cote     d'or     thou     glorious,     never-to-be-forgotten 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  127 

country  !  "  he  murmured,  beneath  the  visor.  And  turn- 
ing upon  his  heel  he  left  me  to  my  cogitations. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  our  acquaintance  ;  I  met 
him  again,  and  he  appeared  to  take  to  me.  He  gave  me 
many  a  glowing  description  of  the  splendor  surrounding 
Charles  the  Bold,  of  his  glorious  army,  of  the  great 
future  then  apparently  in  store  for  Burgundy,  of  the 
battles  and  tournaments  that  had  enriched  him  with 
trophies.  But  he  never  mentioned  either  Granson  or 
Murten.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  anxious  to  learn 
from  me  the  present  condition  of  the  once  famous 
Burgundy,  the  power  and  exploits  of  France,  the  modern 
perfections  of  the  art  of  war,  and  the  tactics  of  battles. 
He  could  listen  to  me  for  hours. 

But  what  interested  him  most,  and  gained  me  his  con- 
fidence fully,  was  my  telling  him  about  my  sojourn  in 
the  Cevennes,  and  the  days  I  spent  in  exploring  the 
charming  hill-range  deserving  so  fully  its  appellation  of 
Cote  d'or.  Never  enough  of  detail  could  I  give  him 
concerning  my  knowledge  of  those  scenes  of  beauty. 
He  would  guide  me,  putting  question  upon  question  ; 
but  it  was  as  if  one  question  kept  hovering  on  his 
lips  which  he  dared  not  ask.  My  recollections  brought 
me  at  last  to  Castle  Roux.  He  started  visibly  as  I 
named  it,  and  grew  silent,  waiting  breathlessly  for  what  I 
might  volunteer. 

Much  might  be  said  concerning  that  castle.  It  is  a 
mountain  fastness  of  ancient  date,  modern  times  having 
restored  it  in  fanciful  style  ;  its  owner  being  proud  of  it 
as  of  a  relic  of  antiquity,  and  inhabiting  it  for 
several  months  in  the  year.  The  family  is  old,  but  the 
original  title  of  Roux  has  yielded  to  another  name  well 
known  in  the  annals  of  France. 

The  old  castle,  interesting  in  itself,  is  rich  in  curiosities 
besides.  I  gave  an  account  of  all  that  might  be  seen 
within  the  venerable  walls,  describing  the  labyrinthine 
passages,  the  queer,  old,  winding-stairs  leading  to  all 
sorts  of  secret  places,  the  lofty  battlements  commanding 
a  view  of  the  fertile  tracts  round  about ;  I  spoke  of  the 
dismal  keeps  hewn  into  the  rock,  where  hapless  prisoners 
for  years  might  dream  of  the  vanished  daylight ;  I  men- 
tioned the  armory  and  the  great  hall  filled  with  the 
cognizances  of  knighthood.  In  short  I  took  my  visored 


128  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

friend  right  through  the  castle,  one  door  only  remaining 
closed  to  my  roaming  description,  that  of  the  so-called 
red  chamber  which  I  myself  had  not  entered.  I  had 
been  told  that  never  mortal  foot  should  cross  its  thresh- 
old again.  Centuries  ago  something  terrible  had  hap- 
pened in  that  room — what  ?  I  could  not  learn.  The  old 
steward,  who  acted  as  my  guide  on  the  occasion  of  my 
visit,  communicative  as  he  was  in  a  general  way,  was  most 
reserved  concerning  the  past  history  of  the  family,  but 
some  account  had  been  given  me  in  the  little  village  inn 
where  I  spent  a  couple  of  nights,  and  it  clung  to  memory. 

Concerning  the  secret  chamber  no  one  seemed  to 
know  anything,  but  I  learned  a  wonderful  story  of  the 
so-called  "Cold  Hand."  Whenever  the  head  of  the 
family  for  the  time  being — so  the  tale  ran — is  about  to 
commit  some  act  detrimental  to  the  honor  or  welfare  of 
the  house,  he  is  warned  at  the  decisive  moment  by  the 
touch  of  a  cold  hand.  At  the  very  moment  he  stretches 
forth  his  own  hand,  be  it  in  friendship  or  in  enmity,  an  icy 
hand,  invisible,  is  laid — not  always  upon  his  hand — some- 
times on  his  cheek,  on  his  neck,  or  upon  the  crown  of 
his  head.  Through  centuries  and  up  to  the  present  time 
the  "  cold  hand  "  in  this  manner  has  swayed  the  fortunes 
of  the  family.  The  influence  was  experienced  last  when 
the  late  owner,  who  died  but  recently,  was  about  to  tie 
the  nuptial  knot.  The  festive  company  was  gathered  in 
the  great  hall ;  he  had  just  taken  hold  of  the  pen  to  sign 
the  marriage-contract,  when  the  icy  touch  of  a  cold  hand 
closed  upon  his  fingers.  He  staggered,  turned  white  as 
a  corpse,  and  dropped  the  pen.  Neither  prayer  nor 
menace  could  prevail  with  him  to  make  him  fulfill  his 
engagement ;  the  wedding  never  took  place. 

I  concluded  by  saying  that  it  remained,  of  course,  with 
the  hearer  to  credit  the  story  ;  some  believed  such  family 
traditions — some  did  not ;  one  could  but  form  one's 
own  opinion. 

The  visored  knight,  however,  did  not  appear  to  think 
there  were  two  ideas  about  it.  His  head  shook  slowly, 
and  the  hollow  voice  made  answer  : 

"  It  is  true,  man,  every  word  of  ii.  I  am  the  last 
Count  of  Roux  !  ...  I  am  the  Cold  Hand  ! " 

I  shrunk  back  terrified  and  stood  trembling,  for  so 
powerful  are  the  instincts  of  mortal  life  fhat  they  cleave 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  129 

to  us  still  :  why  should  one  shrink  from  a  fellow-ghost  in 
hell,  where  all  hands  are  cold  ? 

The  Count  stood  groaning. 

"  Hear  me,"  he  said  ;  "  I  will  tell  you  my  story." 

I  could  not  but  listen,  and  he  began  : 

"  I  have  never  yet  discovered  what  cause  brought  me 
to  this  place  of  punishment,  unless  it  be  the  fact  that 
over  much  piety  governed  me  in  life.  I  was  ruled  by 
the  priests,  body  and  soul,  and  jobeyed  their  behests 
blindly. 

"  Some  centuries  ago  a  colony  from  Provence  had 
settled  in  the  valleys  of  the  Cevennes  ;  they  were  quiet 
people,  and  patrons  of  diligence,  the  neighborhood 
indeed  had  only  gained  by  their  presence.  Peaceful 
and  harmless,  they  seemed  glad  of  the  retreat  they  had 
found.  But  then  they  were  heretics,  forming  a  religious 
community,  a  remnant  of  the  Albigenses.  At  first  they 
kept  their  creed  to  themselves  ;  but  by  degrees,  feeling 
settled  in  their  new  home,  they  confessed  their  heresies 
openly,  attempting  even  to  gain  others  to  their  views. 
They  claimed  the  right  for  every  Christian  to  read  the 
Bible  for  himself  ;  and  repudiated  anything  that  was  not 
in  keeping  with  the  Scriptures  and  the  teaching  of  the 
Apostles.  This  was  dangerous  doctrine,  and  could  not 
fail  to  call  forth  the  resistance  of  the  clergy.  The 
struggle  reached  its  height  about  the  time  I  entered 
upon  manhood.  As  an  obedient  son  of  the  Church  I 
closed  my  eyes  to  harm  to  myself,  and  drove  them  from 
my  dominion.  It  was  a  small  crusadev  a  repetition  of 
Albigensian  persecution.  A  third  part  of  my  county  was 
laid  waste  ;  devastation  reigned  where  thrift  and  wealth 
had  flourished,  and  I  myself  had  done  it.  Nothing  but 
the  assurance  that  so  great  a  sacrifice  would  gain  me  a 
high  place  in  heaven  could  uphold  me  through  the  pangs 
of  loss,  and  the  priests  did  their  best  to  strengthen  my 
belief. 

"  And  yet  I  lived  to  rue  it.  The  Church  for  which  I 
had  done  so  much  would  do  nothing  for  me,  at  least  not 
what  I  wanted.  I  wished  to  marry  the  lovely  Lady 
Cyrille  de  Breville,  but  was  refused  dispensation  because 
she  was  a  distant  cousin.  Endless  were  the  difficulties, 
and  humiliations  I  underwent.  Entreaty,  menace,  prom- 
ise of  money  availed  not.  My  gracious  Liege  inter- 


130  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

fered  ;  it  was  vain.  I  myself  went  on  a  pilgrimage  to 
Rome.  Two  years  had  been  spent  in  mortifying 
endeavor  when  at  last  I  gained  my  end. 

"  Indeed,  had  it  been  in  my  power  to  recall  the  Albi- 
genses,  I  would  have  done  it,  so  wroth  was  I. 

"  Cyrille  then  became  my  wife,  doubly  dear  for  the 
battle  that  had  won  her,  and  for  the  faithful  endurance 
with  which  she  clave  to  me.  For  I  had  had  a  dangerous 
rival  in  the  Count  of  Tournailles.  There  stood  nothing 
m  the  way  of  a  marriage  with  him  ;  but  she  had  pre- 
ferred to  wait  till  I  could  lead  her  to  the  altar.  For 
some  five  or  six  years  I  was  in  a  heaven  of  bliss.  Our 
union  had  been  blessed  with  two  children,  a  boy  and  a 
girl.  What  so  few  can  say,  we  could  :  our  happiness  was 
complete.  Then  the  time  came  when  Duke  Charles 
called  his  vassals  to  arms.  Knighthood  loved  to  obey, 
but  it  was  a  wrench  to  affection.  I  went. 

"  You  know  the  history  of  that  unfortunate  war  ;  how, 
having  conquered  Lorraine,  we  faced  the  Swiss.  Gran- 
son,  Murten — terrible  names  !  It  is  a  mystery  to  me  to 
this  day  how  it  came  about ;  I  doubt  not  that  unearthly 
powers  interfered.  I  fell  at  Murten,  and  lifting  my  eyes 
found  myself  here. 

"I,  who  had  been  assured  of  having  a  place  in  heaven, 
to  be  thrust  into  hell  by  the  hand  of  a  low-born  churl ! 
I  shall  never  get  over  the  disgrace.  And  my  loving  wife, 
my  darling  children — stronger  than  the  feeling  of  shame 
was  the  longing  for  them.  It  drove  me  back  to  earth,  a 
restless,  wandering  soul. 

"  Never  shall  I  forget  that  first  spirit  journey  in  mist 
and  darkness.  I  drew  near  my  own  old  home,  a  stranger, 
an  outcast,  'sick  and  lonely  at  heart :  feeling  as  those 
must  feel  who  in  the  dead  of  night  follow  the  ways  of  sin. 
Every  noise  made  me  tremble  ;  I  shuddered  at  the  fall- 
ing leaf.  It  was  agony.  Why  did  I  not  turn  on  my 
path  and  go  back  to  hell  ?  You  well  may  ask — but  I  was 
driven  onward,  a  terrible  power  was  upon  me.  Slowly 
I  went  from  place  to  place,  every  well-known  spot  add- 
ing its  individual  pain  ;  I  drank  the  dregs  of  memory. 
At  last  I  reached  the  castle,  on  which  the  fitful  moon- 
light cast  a  spectral  glimmer. 

"  What  a  change  ?  Surely  I  was  the  same  I  had 
always  been,  but  there  was  something  that  made  me  feel 


LETTERS   FROM   HELL.  131 

a  stranger  to  myself  !  Oh  for  tears  to  weep  !  I  spurned 
them  in  the  days  of  life,  but  now,  what  would  I  not  have 
given  for  a  healing  tear  ?  Vainest  longing  !  I  stood 
and  trembled,  horror-struck  as  at  the  sight  of  a  ghost ; 
yet  I  myself  was  the  ghost — let  others  fear  !  Was  ever 
such  a  reception  !  The  wind  moaned  in  tree-tops,  doors 
creaked,  shadows  glided  through  passages — I  stood 
listening  ;  the  dogs  whined,  the  cattle  were  restless,  my 
favorite  charger  moved  uneasily  in  his  stall. 

Like  a  thief  I  entered  my  own  castle,  stole  up  the 
staircase,  and  passed  noiselessly  from  room  to  room. 
But  the  place  felt  forsaken,  empty,  and  cold.  My 
chidren,  I  must  see  them  first.  I  found  them  in  the 
sweet  sleep,  of  innocence,  cradled  in  health  and  beauty. 
Never  till  that  moment  had  I  known  the  despair  of  love. 
My  eyes  beheld  them,  life  of  my  life,  yet  mine  no  more. 
I  longed  to  embrace  them,  to  press  them  to  my  heart, 
but  dared  not — simply  dared  not.  I  could  but  groan 
and  hie  me  away. 

"  On  I  went,  the  well-known  way,  to  my  own  old 
chamber  with  the  nuptial  couch.  That  room  is  locked 
now  and  never  entered  by  mortal  foot — the  room  of  the 
mystery.  Overpowered  with  feelings  unutterable,  I 
lingered  on  the  threshold,  so  near  to  seeing  her  again, 
her  ! 

"  And  I  saw  her — asleep  in  the  arms  of  another,  the 
arms  of  my  former  rival,  the  Count  of  Tournailles.  I 
stood  for  a  moment,  rooted  to  the  ground.  How  beauti- 
ful she  was — beautiful  as  ever.  But  oh,  the  depth  of 
torment !  I,  to  whom  her  love  had  been  pledged  for  ever 
and  aye,  forgotten,  betrayed  \  '  Hapless  woman  ! '  I 
groaned,  'is  it  thus  thou,keepest  thy  vow?  is  it  thus 
thou  art  loyal  to  my  memory  ? ' 

''  I  stood  clenching  my  fists  in  helpless  rage,  and 
gnashing  my  teeth.  What  could  I  do  ?  Let  me  wake 
her  at  least ;  she  shall  see  me  !  And  stretching  forth 
my  hand  across  the  well-known  bed,  I  laid  it  upon  her 
uncovered  shoulder.  She  started  at  the  icy  touch  ;  she 
saw  me  ;  I  must  have  offered  an  awful  sight,  for  she 
gave  a  scream  rousing  echoes  of  horror,  and  lay  fainting 
on  the  pillow.  I  vanished. 

"  But  my  wrath  was  boundless.  From  that  hour  I 
persecuted  her  ruthlessly;  when  she  expected  it  least 


132  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

the  touch  of  my  hand  was  upon  her.  She  never  saw  me 
again,  but  I  think  that  made  my  presence  all  the  more 
horrible  to  her.  At  night  especially  I  would  be  near 
her,  watching  that  never  again  she  might  rest  in  his  arms. 
My  cold  hand,  forbidding,  was  between  them.  They 
went  about  like  ghosts  themselves,  worn  and  harassed; 
the  grave  seemed  yawning  to  receive  them.  The  time 
came  when  they  could  not  bear  it  any  longer,  and  re- 
solved to  separate.  She  entered  a  cloister,  and  there  my 
hand  was  powerless.  In  that  peaceful  retreat  her  child 
was  born,  and  from  him  are  descended  the  present 
owners  of  Castle  Roux. 

"My  own  children  drooped  and  died.  That  was  the 
last  great  sorrow  touching  me  in  the  upper  world.  I 
stood  by  their  bier.  That  turned  my  heart;  I  felt  some- 
thing like  regret;  perhaps  after  all  I  had  been  too  hard 
upon  her.  A  dead  husband  is  no  husband,  and  has 
nothing  to  claim;  whereas  she  was  in  the  fullness  of  life, 
young  and  fitted  for  joy,  owing  duty  to  nature  and  to  the 
world.  In  voluntary  penance  I  resolved  henceforth  to 
watch  over  Cyrille's  son,  and  his  children's  children  after 
him.  It  was  a  sacred  vow,  and  I  have  kept  it  since. 
This,  then,  is  the  'cold  hand  of  Roux.'  An  unmistak- 
able presentiment,  akin  to  revelation,  informs  me  of  any 
hurtful  step  a  member  of  the  family  may  be  about  to 
take;  and  then  I  rest  not  in  hell,  but  go  back  to  the 
world  to  interfere  at  the  decisive  moment.  With  few 
exceptions,  every  scion  of  the  family,  man  or  woman,  has 
felt  my  hand;  and  it  will  be  so  till  the  last  of  them  has 
been  gathered  to  his  fathers. 

"At  the  present  moment  the  call  is  again  upon  me, 
urging  me  to  revisit  the  land  of  the  living.  What  it  is 
that  requires  my  presence  I  cannot  tell;  but  I  know  my 
time,  and  the  cold  hand  will  never  fail  of  its  mission." 

Thus  spoke  the  Count;  and  having  finished,  he  fell  a 
prey  to  silence,  leaving  me  to  myself.  I  expect  to  meet 
him  again,  and  doubt  not  that  he  will  take  charge  of 
this  letter.  But  thou,  my  friend,  hast  nothing  to  fear 
from  the  cold  hand  of  Roux. 

You  cannot  ask  me,  but  the  question  would  seem 
natural :  "  Will  you  not  return  to  earth  yourself  i  if 
others  are  coming,  why  not  you  ? "  I  hardly  know  what 
to  say.  It  is  not  an  impossible  thought  that  I  too  might 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  133 

be  driven  some  day  to  revisit  the  upper  world.  I  say 
driven,  for  no  one  goes  unless  urged  by  an  inward 
necessity — unmistakable  and  irresistible.  Should  the 
compelling  need  at  any  time  lay  hold  of  me,  I  should 
have  no  choice  but  to  go.  I  trust  it  may  never  be,  for  it 
would  be  adding  new  pangs  to  my  misery.  I  expect 
that  the  author  of  that  need  is  none  but  Satan  himself ; 
for  surely  the  Lord  in  heaven  has  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
The  bare  thought  of  such  a  possibility  brings  back  all 
the  horrors  of  death,  an-1  hope  cries  out,  Let  me  never 
quit  hell  ! 

Stop  and  consider  the  awful  poverty  of  hope  that  has 
nothing  left  but  this  ! 


LETTER     XVI. 

IN  Italy  the  glories  of  nature  reach  their  perfection  at 
eve.  My  mother  not  being  much  of  a  walker,  Lily  and 
I  would  stroll  about  by  ourselves.  Venice,  Florence, 
Naples, — enchanting  memories  !  Not  now,  I  mean,  but 
in  the  days  of  life. 

Those  Italian  evenings  were  an  indescribable  mixture 
of  beauty  and  delight  ;  nature  a  very  cradle  of  peace — 
and  peace  speaking  to  my  soul.  For  I  had  Lily  with 
me  ;  and  no  matter  what  scenes  of  humanity  might 
surround  us,  she  and  I  seemed  alone  at  such  moments. 

The  most  perfect  delights  I  tasted  at  Florence.  We 
visited  the  Piazza  del  Gran  Duca,  the  centre  of  life  in 
that  city.  Surrounded  by  magnificent  buildings,  the 
place  radiant  with  light,  you  feel  as  though  you  had 
entered  some  lordly  hall,  gigantic  in  size,  and  of  royal 
splendor,  roofed  over  by  the  starry  sky. 

Here  you  see  that  ancient  palace,  with  its  grand  medi- 
seval  tower,  which  has  looked  down  upon  many  a  stormy 
gathering  in  the  days  of  the  republic,  upon  Dante  too, 
Michael  Angelo,  Savonarola.  In  front  of  it  are  two 
colossal -statues — David  and  Hercules.  Not  far  distant 
— on  the  very  spot,  tradition  says,  where  Savonarola  suf- 
fered death  on  the  pyre, — a  fountain  sends  up  its  spark- 
ling jets,  guarded  by  Tritons  and  Fauns,  and  surmounted 
by  a  figure  of  Neptune,  the  ruler  of  seas.  Again,  a 


134  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

little  farther,  stands  the  equestrian  statue  of  Cosmo  di 
Medici,  cast  in  bronze,  a  master-work  by  Giambologna. 
On  the  opposite  side  a  flight  of  steps,  presided  over  by  a 
pair  of  antique  lions,  leads  you  into  the  glorious  Loggia 
dei  Lanzi.  Here,  by  the  light  of  lamps,  you  behold  some 
of  Italy's  noblest  treasures  of  art — Perseus,  the  Deliverer, 
by  Benvenuto  Cellini  ;  Judith  and  Holofernes  ;  Hercules 
and  the  Centaur  ;  the  famous  marble  group  by  Giambo- 
logna, representing  the  Rape  of  the  Sabines  ;  and  Ajax, 
with  the  dying  Patroclus  in  his  arms.  In  the  back- 
ground you  see  a  number  of  Vestals  of  more  than  human 
size.  These  statues,  seemingly  alive  and  breathing  in 
the  magic  light,  cast  over  you  a  wondrous  spell,  holding 
you  transfixed.  The  fact  that  a  collection  of  such  price- 
less works  of  art  can  be  open  to  the  public  freely — 
entrusted  to  that  instinctive  reverence  for  things  beau- 
tiful to  which  the  lowest  even.  .  .  . 

But  fool  that  I  am,  going  off  into  aesthetics  !  Am  I 
not  in  hell  !  Nay,  laugh  not,  but  pity  me,  for  I  could 
not  join  in  your  merriment. 

Great  is  the  power  of  memory ;  it  is  upon  me,  drag- 
ging me  back  to  scenes  long  dead  and  gone.  Memories  ? 
what  are  they  but  my  life — my  all  !  But  they  are  bare 
of  enjoyment ;  they  are  as  a  cup  of  poison  that  will  not 
kill,  but  which  fills  you  with  horror  and  unutterable 
despair. 

It  was  with  a  deep  inward  joy,  lifting  us  as  it  were  to 
that  height  where  reality  and  enchantment  meet,  that 
Lily  and  I  moved  slowly  through  that  hall  of  art.  We 
hardly  spoke.  And  when  satisfaction  for  the  moment 
had  her  fill,  we  escaped  to  the  dimly-lit  arcades  of  the 
Palazzo  degli  Uffizi.  There  words  would  come;  the 
charm  was  broken,  though  its  spell  remained.  How 
much  we  had  to  say  to  one  another;  how  sweet,  how 
tender  was  Lily's  trustful  voice  !  As  her  arm  rested  on 
mine  I  seemed  to  hear  the  very  beat  of  her  heart.  And 
what  delight  to  me  to  open  her  mind  to  the  treasures  she 
had  seen,  to  rouse  new  feelings  of  beauty  in  that  waking 
soul,  so  responsive  and  so  pure  ! 

When  the  shadows  of  night  had  deepened,  we  would 
return  home,  passing  the  stately  cathedral.  Stillness  had 
settled,  spreading  wings  of  peace.  Maria  del  Fiore  they 
call  this  church,  and  truly  it  is  a  fitting  name.  Florence 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  135 

means  the  flowering  city,  and  this  sacred  pile  is  a  very 
blossom  of  beauty  in  her  midst.  It  needed  one  hundred 
and  sixty  years  for  the  cathedral's  stately  growth.  Her 
cupola  overlooks  not  only  the  whole  of  the  town,  but  the 
whole  of  the  radiant  valley;  the  splendid  belfry,  rich  in 
sculpture,  lifting  its  graceful  front  to  a  height  of  three 
hundred  feet.  Not  far  from  it  stands  that  ancient  bap- 
tistry, with  its  wondrous  gate  of  bronze,  which,  as 
Michael  Angelo  said,  was  worthy  of  being  the  gate  of 
Paradise.  In  front  of  it  there  is  a  rough-hewn  stone 
bench.  There  Lily  would  often  rest  when  tired  by  our 
wanderings.  There  Dante  had  sat,  dreaming  of  Paradise 
and  hell,  and  thinking  of  Beatrice. 

One  evening  I  asked  Lily  which  part  of  the  city 
pleased  her  best. 

"The  Piazza,  is  very  beautiful,"  she  said;  "but  after 
all  it  is  a  far-off  sort  of  beauty,  carrying  one  back  to 
heathen  times;  here  I  feel  at  home,  the  very  stones 
breathing  Christianity.  The  difference  is  very  strange; 
at  this  place  the  living  faith  takes  hold  of  me  that,  roam 
where  you  will  in  the  world,  you  must  return  to  the  Lord 
for  content.  The  world  with  all  its  glory  cannot  satisfy 
us  as  He  can." 

"  Ah,  Lily,  would  that  I  believed  like  you !  "  I  cried 
involuntarily,  pressing  her  hand  till  it  must  have  pained 
her — I  scarcely  knew  it. 

Suppressing  an  exclamation  she  looked  at  me  with 
earnest  surprise,  saying  uneasily: 

"  Oh,  Philip,  don't !  as  compared  to  you  I  am  but  an 
ignorant  child." 

"  Yes,  Lily,  but  your  childlike  heart  is  the  treasure  I 
envy.  Is  it  not  an  old  blessed  truth  that  to  children  is 
given  what  is  hidden  from  the  wise  ?  Perhaps  you  can 
answer  me  a  question,  Lily;  it  may  be  all  plain  to  you, 
though  many  of  the  great  and  learned  make  it  a  bewil- 
dering riddle.  What  is  being  a  Christian  ! " 

"  Dear  Philip,  what  should  it  be  but  having  Christ  in 
your  heart." 

These  words  of  hers  cut  me  to  the  soul.  How  often 
had  I  felt  that  it  was  Satan,  or  at  least  an  evil  spirit  that 
dwelt  in  me. 

"Yes,"  said  Lily,  as  if  to  herself  in  quiet  rapture, 
"that  is  it — so  simple,  and  yet  so  great,  Him  alone  I 


136  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

desire,  and,  having  Him,  I  have  father  and  mother  and 
all  the  world.  He  makes  His  abode  with  me  that  in 
Him  I  may  live  and  move,  and  have  my  being.  He 
alone  is  my  Saviour,  my  Lord,  my  all."  And  softly  she 
added  after  a  while  :  "  Lord  Christ,  let  me  be  true  to 
thee,  till  thou  take  me  home  ! " 

A  deep  silence  followed.  The  memories  of  childhood 
pressed  around  me,  as  if  wrestling  for  my  heart.  I  was 
moved — unutterably  moved.  I  felt  as  though  the  tears 
were  rising  to  my  eyes,  and,  hushing  all  other  feelings, 
the  one  thought  took  shape  :  She  is  the  angel  that  is  to 
lead  thee  back  to  God. 

"But,  dear  Philip,"  said  Lily,  after  a  long  pause, 
"that  question  could  not  have  come  from  your  heart ;  I 
do  not  understand  you." 

I  made  some  reply,  scarcely  knowing  what  I  said.  I 
felt  her  arm  trembling  within  mine  ;  she  stopped  short  ; 
we  were  standing  in  front  of  one  of  those  little  madonnas, 
illumined  by  a  lamp. 

"  Let  me  look  you  in  the  face,"  she  said.  "  I  felt  as  if 
some  stranger  were  speaking  to  me.  .  .  .  No,  I  am 
sure  ;  it  is  your  own  self — you  could  never  change  !  " 

And  she  laughed  at  her  own  foolish  fancy,  as  she 
called  it. 

Lily's  laughter,  at  any  time  as  brightest  music  to  my 
ears,  broke  the  evil  spell.  I  felt  light-hearted  again,  the 
shadows  had  vanished  before  the  health-giving  sun. 

"  Never  to  you  !  "  I  cried,  drawing  her  close,  "  and 
you  are  my  own  little  friend,  so  good,  so  true,  intended 
to  be  a  blessing  to  me  in  life  and  in  death  !  " 

I  have  met  her  again,  I  have  met  Annie  !  She  sat 
apart,  strangely  occupied.  Her  long  hair  fell  about  her  ; 
she  was  taking  little  shells  and  bits  of  reeds  out  of  the 
dripping  tresses.  Her  slight  garment  had  slipped  from 
her  shoulder.  Oh,  horror  !  I  saw  the  brand  of  shame 
disfiguring  the  snowy  skin.  It  was  a  mark  red  as  blood, 
and  the  conscience  of  blood-guiltiness  raised  its  voice  in 
my  soul. 

As  an  open  page  her  heart  lay  revealed  to  my  sight. 
Shame  and  despair  dwelt  therein.  But  her  life's  history 
was  not  written  there.  Her  face,  once  so  lovely,  now  so 
degraded,  bore  the  traces  of  it :  and  with  the  brand  upon 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  137 

her  shoulder  ended  the  terrible  account.  Her  fault,  at 
first,  was  but  this,  that  she  loved  me  too  fondly,  trusted 
me  too  foolishly.  It  was  I  who  had  wronged  her,  ruined 
her  in  return  for  that  love.  She  had  perished  in  the  tor- 
rent of  sin,  carried  from  shame  to  shame,  from  despair  to 
despair,  sinking  at  last  in  a  watery  grave.  The  knowl- 
edge of  it  was  as  a  fire  consuming  my  heart. 

I  stood  gazing,  unable  to  turn  away  my  eyes,  though 
the  sight  should  kill  me.  But  suddenly  I  felt  as  if  my 
soul  were  rent  asunder  ;  light,  as  a  bursting  flame,  flashed 
through  me,  leaving  me  trembling,  a  chill  chasing  the 
glow.  A  horrible  thought  had  possessed  me.  Those 
features — of  whom  did  they  remind  me  ?  Fearful  convic- 
tion, Martin  resembled  Annie — was  as  like  her  as  a  son 
may  be  like  his  mother !  Had  not  Martin's  mother, 
moreover,  been  a  strolling  actress,  who  had  drowned  her- 
self? And  Martin's  secret, — that  secret  which  should 
make  all  plain  between  us — reconcile  us, — was  this  it  ? 
Yes,  yes,  I  could  not  doubt  ! 

Then  Martin  was  her  child — and  mine  !  And  I  had 
ruined  not  only  her,  but  him,  my  child,  my  son  !  This, 
then,  was  the  reason  why  the  boy  had  fascinated  me  so 
strangely.  I  had  seen  myself  in  him.  That  is  why  I 
had  loved  him — to  pission  almost — in  spite  of  his  wild 
and  wayward  temper  !  This  wild — ay,  evil  nature  was 
my  own.  It  was  thus  that  God  punished  me  in  him.  Is 
it  not  written  that  He  visits  the  iniquity  of  the  fathers 
upon  the  children  unto  the  third  and  fourth  generation  ? 
It  is  terrible.  And  the  worst  is  this — not  the  mother 
only,  but  my  own  child  !  The  night  of  madness  is  not 
known  in  hell,  else  that  hour  must  have  plunged  me 
into  it. 

But  the  doubt  remained.  I  must  have  it  solved  at  any 
cost.  I  hastened  towards  her.  But  she,  at  my  first 
movement,  lifted  her  eyes,  saw  me,  and  fled,  horror 
winging  her  feet.  She  was  gone. 

•'  O  for  mountains  to  cover  me  and  hide  me  ! "  I 
wailed  in  anguish  ;  but  there  is  no  hiding  in  hell,  not  a 
corner  where  in  unseen  solitude  a  man  may  wrestle  with 
his  grief. 

I  have  never  yet  succeeded  in  writing  a  letter  at  one 
sitting.  I  take  pen  and  paper  as  the  longing  seizes  me, 


138  LEtTERS    FROM    HELL. 

and  jot  down  what  specially  occupies  my  mind — the 
thoughts  that  assail  it ;  then  turn  away,  to  continue  some 
other  time  at  longer  or  shorter  interval.  I  never  write 
unless  some  inward  necessity  prompts  me  ;  yet  if  I  did 
not  somehow  court  that  necessity,  I  do  not  think  I  ever 
should  write.  This  will  partly  explain  why  these  letters 
are  no  continuous  account,  but  broken  pictures  only — a 
true  mirror  of  myself,  who  am  but  a  wreck  now,  shat- 
tered and  undone. 

I  remember  that  of  all  days  I  disliked  Sunday  most  ; 
on  that  day  I  used  to  dine  at  my  mother's,  and,  what  I 
thought  worse,  was  expected  to  accompany  her  to 
church.  I  say  worse,  not  because  I  disliked  hearing 
sermons,  but  because  I  was  never  sure  that  some  word 
might  not  rouse  unpleasant  sensations  within  me, 
followed  by  thoughts  which  I  preferred  keeping  in 
memory's  tomb,  rather  than  let  them  run  riot  with  fear 
and  regret.  In  the  hubbub  of  daily  life  it  was  easy 
to  keep  down  serious  thoughts  ;  but  on  Sundays  and  at 
church  they  would  be  heard,  making  me  feel  that  I  had 
missed  my  true  destiny,  that  I  was  not  what  I  should 
have  been.  What  was  the  use  of  such  thoughts,  since  no 
man  can  undo  his  past  ? 

But  worst  of  all  were  Communion  Sundays,  for  my 
mother  would  have  me  attend.  She  was  so  very  careful 
of  proprieties,  and  I  did  not  like  to  grieve  her  ;  so  I 
went,  feeling  all  the  time  as  though  I  were  being  dragged 
to  the  pillory.  Bad  as  I  was,  I  was  no  scoffer  ;  I  felt 
there  was  something  holy,  and  that  I  had  no  part  in  it. 
I  would  far  rather  not  have  partaken.  The  service  was 
positively  painful  to  me.  I  tried  to  go  through  it  uncon- 
cerned ;  but  this  was  a  case  of  the  spirit  being  stronger 
than  the  flesh.  I  knew  what  I  was  about !  It  took  me 
several  days  to  get  over  the  uneasiness  created  in  my 
mind  ;  I  would  shake  off  impressions — find  myself  again, 
as  I  called  it — in  a  whirl  of  amusement. 

The  memory  of  one  of  these  Sundays  is  present  with 
me  ;  and  why  ?  I  see  a  slender  girl  in  the  bloom  of 
youth,  her  beauty  transfigured  to  something  of  unearthly 
lustre,  uplifted  to  the  spiritual.  I  see  her  ;  the  fair  head 
drooping,  the  silky  wealth  of  her  hair  falling  about  her 
like  a  veil.  Hers  is  a  higher  loveliness  than  mere 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  139 

regularity  of  features,  and  there  is  that  in  her  eye  which 
keeps  you  a  prisoner  to  something  above,  beyond.  That 
serene  gaze  of  hers  is  all  worship,  all  adoration:  it  is  her- 
self, her  soul.  But  there  is  more  ;  that  smile  of  hers  is 
as  a  ray  of  light ;  you  cannot  tell  whether  it  hovers 
on  her  lips  merely  or  shines  from  her  eyes  ;  it  is  there, 
as  a  beam  from  heaven  lighting  up  her  face. 

That  was  Lily  in  her  sixteenth  year  ;  she  too  is  about 
to  take  the  sacrament.  She  does  not  do  so  lightly — I 
judge  from  the  blushes  on  her  face,  from  the  heaving  of 
her  tender  form.  Yes  ;  she  too  is  uneasy,  approaching 
tremblingly  ;  but  how  different  from  me  !  It  was  her 
first  communion. 

I  had  risen  early  against  my  wont ;  the  disquietude  of 
my  mind  would  not  let  me  rest ;  somehow  my  heart 
would  beat.  I  set  about  dressing — what  evil-doer  was 
that  looking  at  me  from  the  glass  !  I  was  quite  unhinged, 
and  hastened  downstairs.  I  met  Lily  in  the  breakfast- 
room  ;  she  was  alone  and  rather  pale. 

"  What  is  it,  my  child  ?  "  I  said  ;  "  are  you  not  well  ?  " 

She  smiled.  Ah  !  that  smile,  it  used  to  be  my  heaven. 
But  woe  is  me  that  I  thought  not  of  a  higher  heaven,  for 
now  I  am  left  desolate  of  either. 

"  Yes,  quite  well,"  she  said  gently.  And  she  went  to 
fetch  my  mother. 

I  stood  lost  in  thought.  The  evident  emotion  in 
which  I  had  surprised  her  was  a  riddle  to  be  solved.  It 
was  always  a  delight  to  me  to  try  and  understand  Lily's 
deepest  being ;  and  the  attempt  at  the  present  moment 
was  doubly  welcome.  I  preferred  reading  her  heart  to 
looking  into  mine. 

My  eye  presently  fell  upon  a  little  book  lying  open  on 
the  table.  I  glanced  at  it,  and  lo  !  it  explained  the 
mystery  !  This  is  what  I  read  : 

"  In  the  sacrament  of  the  Lord's  Table  the  Saviour 
gives  Himself  to  the  believing  soul.  It  is  a  holy  com- 
munion, blessed  beyond  utterance.  The  love  of  earthly 
bride  and  bridegroom  is  a  poor  human  type.  Christ  is 
the  heavenly  Bridegroom,  and  the  believer's  heart  the 
bride.  The  love  that  unites  them  is  unspeakable,  filling 
the  soul  with  a  foretaste  of  heaven's  perfect  bliss." 

Now  I  understood,  or  at  least  guessed,  what  was  pass- 
ing in  Lily.  Her  soul  was  moved  as  the  soul  of  a  bride 


140  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

at  the  nearness  of  the  bridegroom  to  whom  she  is  willing 
to  belong.  She  had  always  loved  her  Saviour,  but  a  new 
love  was  upon  her  ;  never  had  she  been  so  happy,  and 
never  so  full  of  disquietude.  She  longs  for  Him,  but  is 
afraid  ;  she  stands  trembling,  yet  knows  she  is  safe  with 
the  lover  of  her  soul,  and  to  Him  alone  will  she  give  her- 
self. 

You  have  heard  of  the  gardens  of  Jericho — at  any  rate 
you  have  read  of  the  lilies  of  the  field,  which  toil  not  and 
do  not  spin,  and  yet  are  more  beautiful  than  Solomon  in 
his  glory. 

Lily  and  I  used  to  watch  these  lilies  growing  in  the 
valley  of  Jericho — Lily,  the  fairest  of  her  sisters.  She 
told  me  a  story  one  evening  as  we  walked  amid  the 
flowers.  I  never  knew  whence  she  had  her  stories.  I 
often  felt  as  though  a  Higher  Being  spoke  through  her, 
even  God  Himself,  and  I  would  listen  with  a  kind  of 
devotion,  never  questioning  her  words,  as  though  they 
were  a  revelation.  Even  now  her  musical  accents  trem- 
ble in  my  ear,  as  I  recall  the  story  she  then  told  me  : 

"  A  man  lay  dying.  The  world  vanished  from  his 
sight,  and  he  was  left  alone  with  the  question,  '  Whither 
art  thou  going  ? ' — that  question  filling  him  with  fear  and 
trembling. 

"  He  lay  writhing  on  his  bed  of  agony,  when  suddenly 
he  beheld  ten  shapes  closing  him  in,  cold  and  pitiless 
— God's  holy  commandments.  One  after  another  they 
lifted  up  their  voices.  The  first  saying,  '  Unhappy  man, 
how  many  gods  hast  thou  allowed  to  enter  into  thy 
heart  ? '  The  second,  '  How  many  idols  hast  thou  set 
up  in  His  stead  ? '  The  third,  '  How  often  hast  thou 
taken  the  name  of  the  Lord  thy  God  in  vain  ? '  The 
fourth,  '  How  hast  thou  kept  the  Sabbath  day,  and 
caused  others  to  keep  it  ? '  The  fifth,  '  How  hast  thou 
honored  thy  father  and  mother,  and  those  that  were  set 
in  authority  over  thee  ? '  The  sixth,  '  How  hast  thou 
acted  by  thy  brother,  doing  unto  him  as  thou  wouldst  he 
should  do  unto  thee  ? '  And  on  they  went,  the  ten  of 
them,  each  with  the  voice  of  judgment,  confounding  his 
soul. 

"  And  the  dying  man,  anguished  and  hopeless,  had  not 
a.  word  to  say.  He  felt  convicted,  and  knew  he  was  lost. 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  141 

At  last  he  cried  despairingly,  '  I  know  I  have  sinned,  but 
can  you  not  leave  me  to  die  in  peace  ? ' 

"  And  they  made  answer,  •  We  cannot  leave  thee 
unless  One  will  take  our  place,  to  whom  you  shall  yield 
yourself  body  and  soul  to  all  eternity,  abiding  by  His 
judgment.  Will  you  do  that?' 

"  The  sick  man  considered  ;  he  was  afraid  of  the  One 
even,  and  his  heart,  beating  feebly,  shook  with  fear.  Yet 
at  last  he  said,  '  I  would  rather  have  the  One  judge  me, 
since  I  cannot  answer  ten.' 

"  And  behold  at  his  word  the  dread  accusers  vanished, 
and  there  appeared  in  their  stead  One,  holy  and  compas- 
sionate, just  and  forgiving.  And  the  dying  sinner  looked 
to  Him.  Death  had  a  hold  of  him  already,  but  he  felt 
the  breath  of  life.  He  remembered  all  at  once  what  in 
far-off  days  he  had  heard  of  One  dying  for  many,  recall- 
ing the  holy  lessons  of  his  childhood  at  his  mother's 
knee,  when  she  told  him  of  the  Lord  that  is  mighty  to 
save.  He  had  forgotten  it,  in  his  life  of  folly  and  of  sin  ; 
but  it  was  coming  back  to  him  even  now.  And  looking 
again,  behold  he  knew  Him  that  stood  by  his  side. 

"  And  faith  gathered  strength,  a  smile  of  blessed  trust 
lighting  up  his  face  ;  and  with  dying  lips  he  cried  : 

"  '  Let  me  be  thine,  Lord, — thine  only — now  and  for 
ever  !  Have  mercy  on  me,  O  Christ,  and  redeem  my 
spirit ! ' 

"  He  sank  in  death,  but  peace  had  been  given  him." 


LETTER    XVII. 

I  REMEMBER  times  of  true  contrition  in  my  life  ;  not 
only  when  I  felt  cast  down,  but  when  I  experienced  also 
anguish  of  soul.  The  burden  on  my  heart  at  such 
moments  would  almost  crush  me.  I  did  see  the  nothing- 
ness and  wretchedness  of  my  pursuits ;  I  felt  I  was 
on  the  road  that  would  lead  me  to  perdition.  I  seemed 
to  hear  voices  crying :  "  Return — return,  while  yet  it  is 
time  ! "  And  my  soul  made  answer  :  "  I  will  return 
before  it  is  too  late."  It  was  not  too  late  while  such 
promptings  urged  me.  The  deep  unrest  within  was 
tending  toward  peace.  I  might  have  come  forth  a  new 


142  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

creature  from  the  conflict  had  I  but  taken  up  the  struggle 
with  sincerity — but  I  did  not ;  weak  endeavors  at  best 
were  all.  And  sometimes  when  I  could  not  but  consider 
my  sins  moodily,  even  sorrowfully,  thoughts  of  levity 
Would  dart  through  me,  pushing  aside  the  tender  stirrings 
of  life  eternal ;  and  with  renewed  carelessness  I  plunged 
deeper  than  before  into  the  whirl  of  amusement.  Indeed, 
from  my  own  experience,  and  from  what  I  have  seen  in 
Others,  I  can  testify  to  the  awful  truth  that  an  evil  spirit 
has  power  over  human  souls.  How  often  some  one  has 
formed  the  best  of  resolutions  ;  he  has  turned  from  sin, 
and  is  anxious  to  seek  the  way  of  life  ;  but  the  tempter 
enters  his  heart,  and  he  falls  deeper  than  before. 

And  then  to  say  there  is  no  devil ! 

Devil  ?  Yes  ;  it  is  no  use  mincing  an  awful  fact — it  is 
he  who  drags  men  to  hell.  There  is  a  devil,  and  the 
number  of  demons  is  legion. 

But,  say  you,  how  is  it  that  God — the  strong,  right- 
eous, pitiful  God — allows  the  evil  one  such  terrible 
power  over  human  souls  ?  Can  He  be  the  all-loving, 
all-merciful  Father,  if  He  does  not  snatch  them  from  the 
destroyer  even  at  the  moment  of  their  weakness  ? 

Do  you  doubt  God,  my  friend  ?  Was  it  not  He  who 
sent  His  good  angels  to  watch  the  door  of  your  heart ; 
who  put  all  that  trouble  and  anguish  into  you  ;  who 
made  you  feel,  and  tremble  at,  the  burden  of  your  sin  ? 
Ay,  it  is  His  Spirit  who  is  at  work  in  us  when  we  feel  we 
have  done  wrong  ;  when  we  long  to  rise  to  a  better  life. 
It  is  He  who  shows  us  that  we  can  rise,  if  only  we  will ! 

But  our  will  is  at  fault — our  sincerity.  That  is  it ! 
What  God  does  for  us  even  at  such  decisive  moments  is 
immeasurably  more  than  what  the  devil  can  do.  But  to 
God  we  listen  not,  great  as  His  love  is  ;  we  care  not  for 
the  riches  of  grace  with  which  He  tries  to  save  us ; 
whereas  the  devil  need  but  pipe,  and  we  straightway  are 
ready  to  do  his  bidding. 

Is  it  to  be  marveled  at  that  there  is  nothing  left  for  us 
but  to  go  to  hell  ? 

I  have  more  to  say ;  but  how  shall  I  say  it  ?  Will 
words  not  end  in  a  wail  of  despair  ? 

In  those  happy  days  when  I  had  Lily  by  my  side,  I 
often  gave  myself  up  to  the  enchanting  thought  that  she 
was  the  good  angel  of  my  life,  sent  by  God's  infinite 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  143 

mercy,  and  that  through  her  His  love  would  lead  me  to 
heaven.  That  view  of  our  relation  was  very  sweet,  and 
often  filled  me  with  the  best  of  intentions.  But  if  my 
heart  was  touched,  it  was  but  surface  emotion  ;  I  was 
willing  enough  to  be  led  by  Lily  ;  but  I  cared  not  to  be 
led  to  God. 

So  Lily's  mission  failed  of  its  object,  and  there  was  no 
help  for  me. 

Since  I  have  come  to  this  dreadful  place  my  eyes  have 
been  opened  to  see  that  if  I  had  yielded  to  the  strivings 
of  grace,  and  had  given  my  heart  to  God,  Lily  would  not 
have  died  in  the  flower  of  life  ;  that,  on  the  contrary, 
God's  gift  of  happiness  was  coming  to  me  through  her. 

Even  in  those  latter  days,  when  the  shadow  of  death 
was  upon  her — ay,  and  on  me  too,  it  would  not  have  been 
too  late.  A  voice  now  says  :  Had  I  repented  of  my  evil 
course — had  I  turned  to  God  even  as  a  prodigal — grace 
was  at  hand,  and  my  Lily  would  not  have  left  me. 
Death  would  have  been  stayed,  having  done  its  work  of 
rousing  the  sinner.  God  Himself  would  have  given  me 
Lily  and  the  blessing  of  her  love,  and  a  new  happy  life 
might  have  followed. 

But  no.  God's  means  of  grace  could  not  break  down 
the  wall  I  had  built  about  my  heart.  I  would  not  turn 
from  sin.  What  could  she  do  but  die  ?  There  was  no 
other  way  of  saving  her  from  a  life  with  me — a  life  that 
would  have  wronged  her  lovely  soul.  Her  pure-robed 
spirit  must  needs  wing  its  flight  to  heaven.  Lily  could 
but  die,  and  it  was  well  that  she  died. 

Well  for  her  !  I  say  so  with  the  honesty  of  despair. 
How  I  hate  myself ! — ready  to  dash  myself  to  pieces, 
were  it  but  possible.  All  is  fraught  with  regret  wherever 
I  turn ;  but  this  one  thought  that  Lily  was  meant 
to  be  mine  for  a  life  of  happiness  is  enough  to  turn 
all  future  existence  into  a  hell  of  hells.  God  meant  to 
bless  me  had  He  but  found  me  worthy.  Earth  might 
have  been  heaven,  andBL\better  heaven  to  come  !  Do 
you  understand  now  ^j£-  hell  is,  and  the  awful  misery 
of  its  retribution  ? 

I  have  lately  been  to  a  ball.  You  know  that  I  have 
always  been  more  or  less  of  a  ladies'  man  ;  but  I  did  not 
frequent  ball-rooms  over  long.  I  soon  got  tired  of  that 


t44  LETTERS  FROM  HF.LL. 

sort  of  pleasure  ;  perhaps  I  was  too  heavy — too  much  of 
an  athlete,  to  be  famous  for  dancing.  In  early  youth, 
however,  I  loved  it  passionately — forgetting  everything, 
earth  and  heaven,  in  the  whirl  of  an  intoxicating  waltz. 

But  in  my  riper  years  I  raised  objections  to  dancing. 
I  always  looked  at  the  aesthetic  side  of  things.  I  began 
to  urge  the  unbecomingness  of  going  on  dancing  for  ten, 
fifteen  years,  or  more.  Let  people  dance  for  two  or  three 
years  and  be  satisfied.  The  pleasure  might  be  compared 
then  to  the  fluttering  of  the  butterfly  amid  the  roses  of 
spring;  there  is  fitness  in  that  on  first  quitting  the  chrys- 
alis of  childhood.  Let  young  people  dance — becoming 
dances  that  is  !  For  them  it  is  a  natural  and  even  beau- 
tiful pastime — an  overflowing  of  the  exuberance  of  life, 
and  an  innocent  pleasure  to  their  untaught  perception. 

However  it  was  a  grand  ball  which  I  visited  lately,  and 
most  fashionably  attended.  The  society,  to  be  sure,  was 
mixed,  but  that  also  gave  a  zest.  The  illumination  was 
perfect,  considering  our  state  of  light.  For  even  with  a 
thousand  chandeliers  we  cannot  rise  above  a  crepuscule  ; 
the  tapers  emit  a  false  light  only,  making  no  impression 
whatever  upon  the  reigning  gloom.  A  good  band  was 
in  attendance,  but  all  their  efforts  produced  no  sound. 
Everything  being  illusive  here,  music  naturally  is  left  to 
imagination.  One  thinks  one  hears,  and  falls  to  dancing. 

The  ladies  were  gorgeously  attired  in  fashions  repre- 
senting several  centuries  ;  it  almost  looked  like  a  mas- 
querade ;  but  these  fair  ones  were  only  true,  each  to  her 
time.  And  on  the  other  hand,  an  attempt  at  masking 
would  have  been  poor  deception,  since  all  their  pomp 
and  vanity  was  transparent  !  Whatever  their  finery,  you 
saw  the  unclothed  woman  beneath — some  bewitchingly 
beautiful,  others  more  like  mummies  than  anything  else. 
We  marched  round  and  round  the  spacious  saloon, 
exchanging  ladies  at  given  times,  so  that  one  had  the 
pleasure  of  touching  hands  with  all  the  fair  ones  present, 
and  forming  their  acquaintance*  Jfe 

What  a  surprise  !  In  my  dinrr^room  at  home  I  had 
a  fine  picture  by  a  well-known  artist.  It  represented  a 
Roman  beggar  girl  in  life-size,  three-quarter  length. 
She  is  to  be  found  in  endless  pictures,  bearing  dates  from 
1835-1842  ;  for  that  she  was  in  high  favor  as  a  model 
need  scarcely  be  said.  She  was  of  true  Roman  blood, 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  145 

born  at  Trastevere — a  fine  type  of  Roman  beauty — her 
face  and  figure,  her  grace  and  bearing,  being  equally 
admirable.  And  her  rags,  which  she  understood  how  to 
arrange  in  a  manner  truly  picturesque,  were  scarcely  less 
charming.  Fashionable  ladies,  with  all  their  getting  up, 
looked  poor  and  insipid  by  the  side  of  that  beggar  girl ! 
And  somehow  she  appeared  proud  of  her  rags,  and 
would  not  have  exchanged  them  for  the  most  elegant 
attire  ;  for  she  knew  that  to  them  she  owed  half  her 
attraction,  her  independence  and  liberty  besides.  Paolina 
she  was  called  ;  but  among  the  strangers  at  Rome  she 
went  by  the  name  of  la  reina  del  mendicandi,  the  beggar 
queen,  or  simply  La  -Reina.  Behold  now  the  original  of 
my  picture — La  Reina  in  person  ! 

One  evening,  as  I  was  walking  through  one  of  the 
more  quiet  streets  of  Rome,  a  young  woman,  hastening 
up  behind  me,  caught  my  arm  tremblingly,  imploring  me 
to  protect  her.  It  was  La  Reina.  Of  course  I  did 
protect  her,  seeing  her  home  ;  arm  in  arm  we  went 
through  the  ill-lit  streets,  and  friendliness  seemed 
natural.  I  was  ungenerous  enough  to  pay  court  to  her. 
But  I  did  not  know  La  Reina.  Firmly,  though  gently, 
she  refused  me.  And  then,  with  a  candor  found  in  Italy 
only,  she  explained  to  me  her  position.  She  was  happy 
now,  she  said — very  happy.  Most  people  treated  her 
kindly,  no  one  dared  think  ill  of  her,  and  she  was  free  as 
the  bird  in  the  air.  But  if  she  yielded,  all  that  would  be 
lost,  and  she  would  sink  to  the  level  of  the  common 
street-girl.  So  long  as  she  could  wear  her  rags  with 
honor,  she  would  not  exchange  them  for  the  velvet  and 
gold  of  a  princess.  More  than  this  even  she  told  me, 
though  without  mentioning  names  ;  she  had  had  the 
most  enticing  offers,  but — sia  benito  Iddio — she  had 
refused  them  all.  Arrived  at  her  humble  dwelling,  she 
kissed  me  with  a  frank  trustfulness,  as  a  child  might, 
and  we  parted.  I  subsequently  had  her  painted. 

After  some  years  La  Reina  suddenly  vanished.  She 
had  risen,  as  she  said,  above  many  a  temptation — the 
proud  beggar  girl  ;  but  of  one  thing  she  had  not  thought, 
the  possibility  of  love  !  Heaven  seemed  open  ;  she 
loved,  she  yielded — and  happiness  was  gone.  In  her 
rags  she  had  been  a  queen — in  silks  and  jewels  she  was 
but  a  slave.  And  worse  was  at  hand.  She  was  betrayed, 


146  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

and  cruelly  disillusioned.  Then  all  the  natural  gentle- 
ness of  her  disposition  forsook  her ;  a  demon  awoke 
instead,  not  shrinking  even  from  vulgar  crime.  She 
thirsted'  for  revenge.  She  was  still  a  marvel  of  beauty, 
no  longer  gracious,  but  majestic.  With  an  icy  heart,  yet 
burning  in  vindictiveness,  she  gathered  her  skirts  about 
her,  succeeding  presently  in  making  a  fool  of  an  old  rake 
of  a  prince.  For  a  moment  only  she  stood  at  the  height 
of  splendor,  meteorlike,  but  long  enough  to  obtain  the 
satisfaction  she  craved.  With  a  crash  it  ended,  and  she 
never  rose  again. 

Now  she  was  once  more  beside  me,  resting  her  arm  in 
mine  ;  but  what  a  difference  between  the  present  moment 
and  that  far-off  evening  when  I  escorted  her  through  the 
dusky  streets  of  Rome.  I  had  recognized  her  on  the 
spot,  and  yet  how  she  was  changed  !  Involuntarily  my 
feelings  shaped  themselves  to  a  sigh.  There  is  no  happi- 
ness but  that  of  innocence  after  all  !  But  when  I  bent 
to  her,  whispering,  "Z#  Reina !  Sta  sempre  in  ricor- 
danza !  "  she  answered  with  trembling  haste,  as  though 
overcome  with  the  recollection,  "  O  state  zitto,  zitto ! 
Nell'  inferno  tutf  e  finite!  La  gioja,  V incur anza  I' amor 
'e  la  speranza  f" 

As  I  was  about  to  quit  the  ball,  I  was  stopped  by  a 
man,  to  all  appearance  a  roue  of  the  first  order,  address- 
ing me  somewhat  flippantly  :  "  I  see  you  are  at  home  in 
this  sort  of  thing  ;  but  have  you  assisted  at  the  ball  ? 
That  is  quite  another  affair,  rendering  all  this  stupid  and 
tame  ;  it  will  come  round  again  presently  ! " 

I  did  not  understand  his  hint,  nor  did  I  care  to  ask  for 
an  explanation.  But  I  was  to  find  out  before  long. 

For  as  the  time  draws  near  when  utter  darkness  sinks 
upon  hell,  a  madness  of  dissipation  possesses  the  fashion- 
able— a  straining  of  all  efforts  to  make  the  most  of  the 
respite,  as  it  were.  This  rage  of  amusement  is  vanity, 
like  everything,  and  fruitful  of  pain  only.  But,  never- 
theless, the  greed  of  pleasure  abounds — plays,  orgies, 
and  immodest  pastimes  succeeding  one  another  in  a  per- 
fect whirl  ;  all  is  forgotten,  save  one  thing,  intoxicating 
and  stunning  the  senses.  Nothing  so  wild,  so  frantic,  so 
shameless,  but  it  is  had  recourse  to  at  this  period ;  and 
he  who  most  successfully  throws  off  restraint  is  the  hero 
of  the  day.  That  well-bred  society  with  difficulty  pre- 


LETTERS    FROM    HM.L.  147 

serves  Its  reputation,  you  may  imagine  ;  for  none  so  well- 
bred  but  they  yield  to  the  contagion  of  the  ball.  They 
only  try  to  preserve  appearances,  that  is  all  ! 

There  is  something  remarkably  like  it  upon  earth — I 
mean  the  revelry  before  Lent.  The  season  of  dead  dark- 
ness is  our  Lent,  but  alas  it  leads  to  no  Easter  beyond  ! 
The  devil  surely  has  raised  up  that  porch  by  which  men 
enter  upon  a  solemn  time — the  carnival  of  fools  ;  here 
then  we  have  it  to  perfection,  winding  up  with  the  ball. 

And  what  is  it  like,  this  ball  ? — beginning  in  propriety 
of  course,  the  ladies  all  smiles,  the  men  pictures  of  ease. 
The  dancing  at  first  is  most  orderly,  following  a  gently- 
swelling  rhythm,  but  as  a  rising  sea  is  its  excitement. 
Look  at  their  eyes — at  the  panting  mouth  half-open  ! 
More  tightly  they  clutch  one  another.  .  .  . 

Dead  darkness  is  at  hand  ;  they  heed  it  not  in  mad- 
dened whirl.  Voluptuousness  is  all  but  one  with  torment; 
they  dance  as  though  a  taskmaster  drove  them  on  to  it — 
the  taskmaster  of  sin.  The  greed  is  theirs — satisfaction 
alone  is  withheld. 

See  the  fair  ones  bereft  of  beauty,  the  gracious  gar- 
ments draggled  and  soiled  !  Is  there  a  more  awful  sight 
than  unwomanly  woman,  hollow-eyed,  corpse-complex- 
ioned,  with  disheveled  hair  and  tattered  clothes  ?  As 
for  men — the  wild  beast  nature  is  upon  them. 

It  is  a  mercy  that  darkness  in  the  end  envelopes  it  all 
— falling  suddenly — and  covering,  like  the  deluge  of 
yore,  what  is  only  fit  to  be  covered.  See  the  end  of 
pleasure  unsanctified  !  The  night  of  death  engulfs  them, 
and  what  then  ? — what  then  ? 


LETTER   XVIII. 

You  are  aware  no  doubt,  and  have  experienced  it 
yourself,  that  the  perfume  of  a  flower  will  wake  mem- 
ories— sweet  happy  feelings  especially  ;  but  slumbering 
passions  also  obey  the  call.  If  on  earth  this  may  mean 
a  kind  of  agonizing  delight,  here  it  is  hell ! 

Do  not  imagine  that  there  are  flowers  in  this  place  ; 
there  are  none  here — none  whatever — no  growth  of  any 
kind.  Kven  faded  flowers  are  of  the  earth.  O  foolish 


148  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

men  !  yours  is  a  flower-yielding  world,  and  you  will  not 
see  that,  with  all  its  trouble  and  sorrow,  it  is  a  blessed 
abode  !  It  is  the  exceeding  love  of  your  Father  in 
heaven,  overflowing  continually,  which  creates  the  flow- 
ers. Those  millions  of  perfumed  blossoms  are  the 
vouchers  of  love  eternal — the  sparkling  pearls  of  the  cup 
which  runneth  over,  given  by  God  to  man. 

Flowers  below  and  stars  above — happy  are  ye  who  yet 
walk  in  life.  But  you  follow  your  path,  heedless  of  flow- 
ers and  heedless  of  stars,  engrossed  with  your  paltry  self 
and  its  too  often  worthless  concerns.  O  foolish  men  ! 

No,  there  is  no  blossoming  here  ;  but  it  is  part  of  our 
torment  to  be  haunted  occasionally  by  the  far-off  perfume 
of  some  flower.  Imagination  of  course,  but  all  the  more 
potent  is  the  effect.  The  sweet  incense  has  power  to  call 
up,  not  feelings  merely,  but  visions  on  which  we  love  to 
dwell — the  spell  of  vanished  enjoyment.  Can  you  con- 
ceive it  :  the  fullness  of  past  delight  returning  upon  you 
as  by  magic,  yourself  being  a  prey  to  death  and  bound- 
less misery  ? 

It  may  be  a  rich  carnation.  The  fragrance  even  now 
will  speak  to  me  of  her  who  wore  it,  and  of  her  glowing 
eyes.  I  succeeded  at  last  in  being  alone  with  her.  She 
was  divided  between  love  and  anger,  I  kneeling  at  her 
feet. 

Or  a  jasmine  of  intoxicating  richness.  In  a  summer- 
house,  overhung  with  the  sweet-scented  shrub,  I  found 
the  fair-haired  beauty.  My  heart  was  full,  and  I  longed 
to  clasp  her,  to  be  drowned  in  the  depth  of  her  sea-blue 
eyes.  I  was  spellbound,  the  dreamy  influence  of  the 
flowers  stealing  through  the  noontide  sun. 

Or  again,  a  luscious  heliotrope.  We  were  alone  in  the 
garden  on  a  summer  eve,  a  balmy  twilight  about  us.  I 
was  to  leave  her  the  following  morning  ;  she  being  tied 
by  ungenial  wedlock.  Her  beauty  was  rich  as  the 
southern  clime ;  her  dark  eyes  mournful,  but  with  a 
wondrous  charm  ;  her  smile  the  saddest  I  ever  knew. 
She  plucked  one  of  the  flowers  that  steeped  the  night 
with  fragrance  and  gave  it  me — calling  me  her  truest 
friend.  But  I,  enraptured,  would  fain  have  bound  her 
by  another  name  ! 

Such  is  the  language  of  flowers  to  me,  coming  on  the 
waves  of  their  perfume  ;  and  the  sweeter  such  memories, 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  149 

the  more  cruelly  they  torture  the  mind,  raising  passion  to 
madness,  although  we  are  unclothed  of  all  bodily  sense, 
and  there  is  no  healing  for  the  suffering  soul. 

It  is  only  the  strong-scented  flowers  that  move  me 
so  powerfully  ;  their  gentler  sisters,  the  violet  and  hearts- 
ease, touch  me  not.  Yet  one  I  may  except — and 
only  one  ;  it  also  brings  pain,  but  I  bless  it.  I  have 
often  been  followed  of  late  by  tender  wafts  as  from 
a  rose.  It  is  a  particular  rose,  and  I  see  it  even  now. 
A  most  delicate  blush  suffuses  its  petals  ;  what  color 
there  is  might  be  called  an  ethereal  glow  at  its  heart  ;  to 
the  cursory  glance  it  is  white,  but  I  know  better.  Lily 
once  gave  me  that  rose  ;  that  is,  I  asked  her  for  it ;  I  do 
not  suppose  she  would  have  thought  of  giving  it  to  me 
of  her  own  accord.  It  was  at  Venice  one  day  ;  we  were 
at  St.  Mark's,  standing  in  front  of  that  altar  sacred 
to  the  Madonna,  with  its  famous  Byzantine  paintings. 
We  were  alone  ;  a  crippled  beggar  had  just  limped  away, 
having  called  down  "  Our  Lady's  "  blessing  upon  us.  A 
holy  feeling  stole  over  me — holy  perhaps  because  the 
cripple  had  called  Lily  la  sua  sposa.  She  had  not  heard 
it,  or  had  not  understood  it.  There  she  stood  with  the 
rose  in  her  hand — the  blushing  flower  being  a  sweet  image 
of  herself. 

"  Give  me  that  rose,  Lily  ! "  I  said  ;  and  she  handed 
it  at  once,  innocently. 

"  Kiss  it  first,"  I  said. 

She  did  so,  and  handed  it  back  again  with  the  most 
charming  of  smiles. 

I  took  it,  kissing  it  in  my  turn.  Lily  blushed  slightly, 
but  not  comprehending  in  her  simplicity  what  that  little 
ceremony  might  be  meant  for.  The  perfume  of  this  very 
rose  has  been  coming  to  me  of  late.  It  seems  strange. 
Is  it  possible,  after  all,  that  there  is  a  kind  of  spiritual 
bond  between  blessed  souls  and  the  lost  ones  here, 
immaterial  as  the  breath  of  a  flower  ?  O  happy  thought, 
let  me  hold  it  fast  .  .  .  alas  it  has  vanished  .  .  .  tran- 
sient as  the  wafted  odor  itself ! 

That  sublime  moment  when  the  glory  of  Paradise  will 
break  through  the  night  cannot  be  far  now  ;  it  is  coming, 
coming  !  I  shall  behold  her  again,  and  though  it  be  a 
pang  of  ten  thousand  sorrows  I  care  not  I  shall  see  her 
in  heavenly  beauty  ;  .  .  .  but  oh,  the  darkness  that  will 


150  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

follow !  Yet  come  what  may,  her  picture  will  not  quit 
me.  ...  I  see  it — shall  always  see  it — radiant  in  bliss, 
though  I  be  in  the  depth  of  hell.  Can  it  be  utter  dam- 
nation if  God  leaves  me  that  much  of  communion  with 
one  of  His  blessed  saints  ?  I  know,  I  feel,  that  she  is 
thinking  of  me  as  I  think  of  her — loving  me,  though  it  be 
with  the  love  of  a  sister.  What  shall  I  say — dare  I  say 
it  ?  Could  God  be  a  Father  if  the  sister  is  in  heaven,  and 
the  brother  for  ever  lost  in  hell  ?  .  .  . 

I  went  to  church  the  other  day,  not  for  the  first  time  ; 
but  I  have  refrained  from  speaking  about  it  hitherto  for 
very  shame's  sake.  Indeed,  I  would  rather  have  kept 
away  altogether,  but  one  is  forced  to  do  a  great  deal  here 
one  would  prefer  to  leave  alone. 

Know  then,  that  hell  is  not  without  a  church  estab- 
lishment. We  have  everything,  you  see,  yet  nothing — 
nothing  !  You  will  understand,  I  cannot  be  speaking  of 
the  Church,  in  the  true  meaning  of  the  word,  that  is  why 
I  add  establishment — disestablishment  would  be  as  good 
a  term — and  of  course  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  wor- 
shiping congregation  here,  or  anything  like  divine  ser- 
vice. I  can  only  say  we  go  to  church.  Good  heavens, 
what  a  farce  ! 

There  are  about  as  many  churches  here  as  there  are 
reverend  gentlemen,  and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal ! 
All  false  and  faithless  ecclesiastics — all  who,  for  the  sake 
of  a  good  living  or  other  worldly  advantage,  have  sinned 
against  the  gospel— all  hirelings  wronging  the  I^ord's  sheep 
— are  gathered  here.  Now  they  are  eaten  up  with  a  burn- 
ing zeal  for  the  gospel  which  once  they  slighted,  but  that 
gospel  is  far  from  them  ;  they  are  devoured  now  with 
love  for  the  sheep,  but  there  are  no  sheep  to  be  tended. 
They  build  churches  upon  churches,  preaching  morning, 
noon,  and  night ;  but  never  a  word  of  God's  passes  their 
lips.  If  the  word  of  grace  were  yet  within  their  reach, 
they  and  their  listeners  might  be  saved.  But  their 
stewardship  is  over  and  the  mysteries  are  taken  from 
them.  Yet  are  they  driven — driven  to  preach,  for  ever 
seeking  the  one  pearl  they  so  grievously  neglected. 

And  so  are  the  people — seeking  I  mean — but  not  find- 
ing. Hell  is  full  of  professing  Christians.  This  may 
sound  strange,  but  it  is  true  nevertheless,  since  all  the 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  15! 

thousands  are  here  to  whom  Christianity  in  life  was  but 
an  outward  thing — a  habit,  or  even  a  mask,  hiding  an 
unconverted  heart ;  all  those  who,  having  heard  the 
message  of  salvation,  listened  to  it  complacently,  but 
never  strove  to  make  sure  of  it  for  themselves — merely 
playing  with  God's  truth,  as  it  were,  falling  away  in  the 
time  of  temptation.  They  are  hungering  and  thirsting 
now  for  the  word  once  despised,  but  it  is  passed  away 
for  ever.  They  know  it,  for  some  of  them  have  been  at 
their  hopeless  endeavor  for  years  and  centuries  now ; 
but  they  cannot  resist  flocking  to  the  would-be  churches, 
listening  anxiously  to  ministers  who  cannot  minister. 

The  churches  consequently  are  full  to  overflowing,  but 
you  always  find  room  ;  for  a  spirit,  a  shade,  can  squeeze 
in  anywhere.  There  is  no  need,  therefore,  to  take  a 
pew,  or  pay  for  it  either,  as  you  do  upon  earth,  where 
the  rich  command  the  best  places,  be  it  at  the  theatre  or 
at  the  church.  That  is  one  advantage  we  have  over 
you. 

At  an  evening  party  the  other  day  I  met  a  certain 

Rev.  Mr.  T .     I  had  nearly  given  his   name,  but 

that  is  against  my  principles.  Who  should  he  be  but  an 
old  acquaintance  of  former  years  !  I  remember  him 
well,  a  fashionable  parson  of  the  kind  the  world  approves 
of — gentlemanly  and  easy-going  in  word  and  deed. 
Shaking  hands  on  leaving,  he  said  lightly  :  "  I  shall  be 
glad  to  preach  to  you  if  you'll  come.  I  have  built  a 
church  in  Sensuality  Square — queer  name,  ain't  it  ? — any- 
body can  show  you  the  way — just  at  the  top  of  Infirmity 
Street.  I've  concocted  a  grand  sermon  for  next  Sunday  ; 
you'd  better  come."  What  could  I  do  but  go.  I  might 
as  well  listen  to  my  old  acquaintance  as  to  any  other 
pretender  of  the  cloth. 

I  found  the  church  in  the  Square  indicated.  I  was 
late,  coming  in  upon  the  singing  ;  but,  ye  angels,  what 
singing  !  Instead  of  saintly  hymns,  the  most  horrible 
songs  I  ever  heard — the  natural  utterance  of  the  people's 
own  thoughts.  The  congregation  was  exceedingly  fash- 
ionable, of  irreproachable  attitude.  But  old  men,  appar- 
ently crowned  with  honor — young  women,  wearing  inno- 
cence as  a  garment — joined  in  that  shameless  perform- 
ance. Parents  encouraged  their  children,  husbands 
their  wives,  unabashed.  Alas !  and  no  sooner  had  I 


152  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

entered,  than  I  was  no  better  than  the  rest  ;  having  come 
to  sing  praises,  my  evil  thoughts  bubbled  over,  and  I 
desecrated  good  intention  with  ribald  song. 

It  ceased.  The  parson  appeared  in  his  pulpit  with  an 
assumption  of  sanctity  quite  edifying — but  for  a  moment 
only,  then  his  beautiful  expression  gave  way  to  a  deplor- 
able grin.  It  was  with  difficulty  apparently  that  he 
reined  in  his  feelings,  and  looked  serious  and  sanctimon- 
ious again  as  he  began  : 

"  My  worshiping  friends  .  .  .  "  a  proper  beginning, 
no  doubt,  and  I  am  sure  he  meant  his  very  best — pro- 
ceeding vigorously  for  quite  half  an  hour,  I  should  say, 
opening  and  shutting  his  mouth  with  the  most  frightful 
grimaces,  though  never  a  word  came  forth.  He  seemed 
to  be  aware  of  it  and  made  desperate  efforts  at  elo- 
quence ;  presently  he  began  again  : 

"  My  worshiping  friends  ..."  and  now  he  appeared 
to  be  in  high  water,  dashing  and  splashing  and  flounder- 
ing along,  drenching  the  congregation  with  his  fluency  ; 
but  never  a  thought  he  gave  them,  and  the  most  shallow 
of  his  listeners  resented  it  presently.  He  was  just  wind- 
ing up  his  rhetoric  when  there  was  an  outburst  of  laugh- 
ter ;  he  stopped  short,  open  mouthed,  and,  like  a  poodle 
that  had  had  a  ducking,  shamefacedly  slunk  down  his 
pulpit  stair. 

I  could  tell  more,  but  let  me  cast  a  veil  over  it.  I  left 
the  place  heavy-hearted.  w 

Is  there  anything  worse  than  to  pretend  to  be  living, 
being  dead — dead  ! 


LETTER   XIX. 

THE  sweeter  memories  are  in  themselves,  the  greater 
their  bitterness  in  hell,  is  it  not  strange  ?  Nay,  it  is  dread- 
ful. I  am  a  prey  to  despair,  not  that  despair  which  finds 
an  outlet  in  raving  madness — there  is  life  in  that — but  a 
kind  of  apathy  which  is  the  sister  of  death.  Despair  is 
one's  daily  bread  here  ;  it  is  in  us,  it  is  about  us. 

Absorbed  at  times — closing  my  eyes  I  had  almost 
said,  but  it  is  no  use  doing  that  here — withdrawing 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  753 

within  myself,  however,  I  have  the  strangest  fancies  and 
imaginings. 

The  other  day  I  believed  myself  carried  away  into  a 
wood.  It  was  one  of  those  wondrous  May-days  when 
spring  bursts  to  life  not  only  in  nature,  but  in  the  heart 
as  well.  But  the  delights  of  spring  are  never  so  pure, 
the  human  soul  is  never  so  uplifted,  as  in  some  genial 
forest-glade. 

The  joyful  carols  of  the  feathered  songsters  found  an 
echo  in  my  heart  ;  I  felt  ready  to  join  in  their  thanks- 
giving. The  rich  fragrance  of  the  wood  was  about  me, 
sinking  into  my  soul,  when  suddenly  I  heard  Lily's  voice 
somewhere  between  the  trees. 

I  started — shaken  out  of  my  dreamful  delight.  O 
cruelty — where  am  I  ?  There  are  no  birds  here,  no 
woodland  enchantment,  no  love  that  might  call ! 

We  had  taken  a  house  one  summer  amid  the  scenery 
of  the  lake  country.  There  were  splendid  woods  about 
us.  My  mother  had  provided  herself  with  companion- 
ship, so  that  I  could  follow  my  own  bent  whenever  I 
chose. 

Often  in  the  early  morning  I  would  take  Lily  for  a  row, 
landing  now  here,  now  there,  to  spend  the  day,  gipsy 
fashion,  amid  the  woody  glens.  I  delighted  at  such 
times  in  having  escaped  from  the  world  and  its  pleasures; 
what  sort  of  renunciation  that  was  you  will  readily  under- 
stand. I  was  nowise  prepared  to  give  up  the  world  in 
order  to  gain  heaven.  I  merely  felt  nauseated  with  the 
excess,  young  as  I  was,  and  glad  to  turn  my  back  upon 
it  for  a  time ;  but  not  longing  for  anything  better  or 
higher. 

Lily  too  delighted  in  burying  herself  in  nature,  as  she 
called  it.  And  aimlessly  we  would  wander  about  the 
livelong  day,  stopping  where  the  fancy  took  us,  and 
proceeding  again  to  look  for  other  spots  of  enchantment. 
Now  and  then  we  would  come  upon  a  hut  where  frugal 
fare  was  obtainable  ;  or  we  took  with  us  what  might 
satisfy  simple  need.  Let  us  live  like  children  of  the 
wood,  we  said,  and  did  so. 

Lily  might  be  about  twelve  years  at  the  time.  My 
mother  rather  objected  to  our  uncivilized  roamings;  but 
meeting  my  opposition,  she  contented  herself  with  the 


154 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 


final  injunction,  "See  that  Lily  does  not  get  too  wild." 
Wild,  sweet  dove  ! — how  should  she  ? 

Lily's  company  was  as  refreshing  to  me  as  the  dewy 
fragrance  of  the  landscape.  In  those  genial  days  the 
graciousness  of  her  being  unfolded,  and  I  felt  a  child 
with  her.  How  she  could  laugh,  and  chatter,  delight  in 
a  nothing,  and  call  up  the  echoes  !  How  easy  and  free 
and  charming  was  her  every  movement !  She  must  look 
into  everything,  peeping  now  here,  now  there,  finding 
surprises  everywhere.  Hers  was  a  marvelous  gift  of 
understanding  the  little  mysteries  of  nature.  The  least 
and  most  hidden  escaped  not  her  notice.  Where  others 
passed  heedless,  she  perceived  wonders.  It  seemed  as  if 
nature  delighted  in  opening  her  secret  beauty  to  the  pure- 
eyed  child.  The  nimble  deer  came  forth  from  the  cover 
and  looked  at  her  with  trustful  gaze — turning  and  looking 
again,  as  though  inviting  her  to  follow.  The  sly  fox 
would  quit  his  lair,  seeking  mice  and  beetles  for  his 
supper,  untroubled  by  her  presence,  but  giving  her  a 
furtive  squint  now  and  then,  as  if  to  keep  her  in  sight. 
The  birds  chirped  at  her  merrily,  or,  half  hiding  in  the 
leafy  bowers,  warbled  down  upon  her  their  most  gleeful 
song — others  running  along  the  lichened  boles,  showing 
off  their  special  art.  The  little  squirrels,  hopping  from 
bough  to  bough,  would  follow  her  about  the  wood.  Rare 
plants  and  flowers  seemed  to  grow  beneath  her  footstep  ; 
they  were  there  at  least  whenever  she  looked  for  them. 
Everything  enchanting  her  added  to  her  charms  ;  as  the 
fairy,  of  the  place  she  appeared  in  her  sylphlike  loveliness 
with  those  eyes  that  welled  over  with  a  light  touched  by 
sadness,  and  that  smile  that  spoke  of  sunbeams  sparkling 
through  rain. 

We  would  camp  beneath  some  tree  at  times,  gathering 
sticks  and  fir-cones  for  a  fire,  by  way  of  preparing  for  a 
meal.  This  done,  I  would  leave  Lily  to  her  own  devices, 
and  how  proud  she  was  of  her  assumed  dignity  !  We 
quite  feasted  on  such  occasions ;  never  did  I  enjoy 
grandest  dinner  more.  I  would  call  her  my  little  wife, 
as  I  watched  her  busy  contrivances,  and  truly  all  those 
nameless  graces  were  hers  with  which  tenderest  woman 
will  flit  round  the  object  of  her  care. 

Having  enjoyed  our  gipsy  meal,  she  would  read  to 
me,  and  sometimes  I  yielded  to  sleep ;  then  she  would 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  155 

Watch  by  me,  keeping  the  flies  from  disturbing  my  slum- 
bers ;  and  on  waking,  the  first  thing  I  grew  conscious  of 
were  those  radiant  stars — her  faithful  eyes. 

At  other  times  I  would  read  by  myself,  or  pretend  to 
read,  listening  to  that  mysterious  rustle  in  the  tree-tops 
which  is  as  of  distant  water,  and  to  the  many  sounds  that 
break  upon  the  stillness  of*  the  wood,  making  it  more 
solemn  by  contrast.  Lily  then  would  roam  about  by 
herself,  never  unoccupied.  Innumerable  were  the 
wreaths  she  made  and  the  nosegays  she  gathered  ;  or  she 
would  return  rich  with  spoils,  bringing  leaves  full  of 
berries,  red  and  ripe.  But  she  never  was  out  of  the 
reach  of  my  voice.  Life  seemed  a  perfect  idyl. 

One  day — we  were  just  saying  that  we  ought  to  know 
the  woods  by  heart  now — having  gone  rather  farther 
than  usual,  we  came  upon  a  little  house  I  had  cause  to 
remember,  though  I  had  chosen  to  forget  it,  covered 
with  clematis  and  roses, — the  charming  lodge  where  I 
had  met  Annie.  I  started,  horror-struck,  trembling,  and 
no  doubt  white  as  death  frightening  poor  little  Lily 
dreadfully.  She  anxiously  inquired  what  ailed  me  ;  but 
not  till  some  minutes  had  elapsed  had  I  recovered 
sufficiently  to  pretend  to  answer  her  questions,  dragging 
her  away  with  me  hastily.  What  explanation  I  gave  her 
I  know  not ;  I  only  remember  that  all  that  day  I  could 
not  look  her  in  the  eyes  again.  How  she  pained  me  with 
her  tender  inquiries,  her  loving  sympathy — little  guessing, 
poor  child,  what  a  frightful  memory  she  kept  hovering 
about  in  her  innocence — little  thinking  that  the  self-same 
demon  that  betrayed  Annie  was,  in  a  measure,  threaten- 
ing her,  and  that  I,  her  friend,  her  only  companion,  was 
both  master  and  slave  of  that  demon  ! 

We  continued  our  roamings,  extending  them  farther 
still — for  I  could  not  rest — but  delight  there  was  none. 
Poor  little  Lily,  she  had  set  out  full  of  hopes  of  pleasure, 
and  found  nothing  but  dullness  and  dispiritedness  ;  she 
was  ready  to  sink  with  fatigue,  but  I  saw  it  not. 

Toward  evening  a  storm  broke,  and  as  we  neared.  the 
lake  we  found  it  one  seething  mass  of  boiling  waters. 
I  dared  not  risk  the  child  in  the  boat,  so  nothing 
remained  but  to  follow  the  path  by  the  shore,  the  dis- 
tance to  the  house,  fortunately,  not  being  beyond  possi- 
bilities. But  Lily  was  tired  out.  The  storm  spirit 


156  l.KTTF.RS    PROM     HELL. 

flapped  his  angry  wings  about  us.  I  wrapped  her  in  a 
cloak,  saying  I  would  carry  her  home.  She  assured  me 
she  was- able  to  walk  ;  but  no,  I  would  carry  her. 

And  how  light  was  the  burden  !  how  doubly  dear  !  I 
felt  as  if  I  could  walk  on  thus  to  the  ends  of  the  world. 
Holding  her  close  I  went  on  steadily,  having  a  couple  of 
miles  before  me.  The  stormy  clouds  were  driving  over- 
head, the  rain  kept  beating  about  me  ;  but  I  cared  not, 
meeting  force  with  force.  How  touching  was  Lily's 
anxiety  lest  she  should  prove  troublesome  ;  and,  finding 
that  I  was  fully  bent  on  carrying  her  home,  how  sweetly 
she  would  set  herself  to  repay  me,  whispering  words  of 
loving  gratitude,  as  if  thereby  to  lessen  the  burden  !  I 
almost  forgot  Annie  in  present  enchantment.  But  even 
at  that  time  I  could  not  shut  out  profaning  fancy  ;  my 
thoughts  before  long  reverted  to  the  carrying  off  of  the 
Sabines  in  the  Loggia  dei  Lanzi  at  Florence.  I  was 
ashamed  of  the  comparison,  and  tried  to  turn  from  it  by 
an  effort  of  will ;  so,  partly  to  punish  myself  for  the 
unworthy  image,  partly  also  to  amuse  Lily,  I  called  up 
another  picture,  which,  I  hoped,  was  more  in  harmony 
with  the  occasion — the  story  of  Christophorus  carrying 
the  Holy  Child.  I  told  Lily  the  legend  of  the  powerful 
heathen  who,  conscious  of  his  strength,  would  serve  none 
but  the  greatest,  and  who,  from  kings  and  emperors,  was 
directed  at  last  to  Christ  crucified.  Seeking  for  Him 
vainly  the  world  over,  he  dwelt  at  last  by  the  side  of  a 
tempestuous  torrent,  satisfied  to  carry  pilgrims  across. 
Years  had  passed,  when  one  night  he  heard  the  calling  of 
a  child,  and  lifted  it  upon  his  mighty  shoulder,  the  burden 
growing  and  growing  till  he  nearly  broke  down  in  the 
river.  Yet,  reaching  the  other  shore,  the  wonderful 
child  said  to  the  hoary  giant :  "  Thou  shalt  be  called 
Christophorus,  for  thou  hast  borne  thy  Lord  !  "  And  the 
heathen  knew  Him  and  suffered  himself  to  be  baptized. 

My  story  had  rocked  Lily  to  sleep.  Her  arm  was 
about  my  neck,  her  warm  cheek  resting  against  mine. 
In  silence  I  walked  along. 

But  the  legend  had  left  an  impression  on  rny  own 
heart.  The  figure  of  the  Saviour  had  risen  before  me  ; 
I  seemed  conscious  of  His  holy  presence.  I  had  not 
thought  of  him  for  many  a  day.  But  buried  out  of  sight 
though  the  faith  of  childhood'  was,  it  had  not  yet  died  ; 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  157 

it  was  welling  up  even  now  from  the  dark  depth  of  my 
heart,  followed  by  recollections,  some  bitter,  some  sweet 
. — the  bitter  ones  abounding,  hiding  their  head  in  shame. 
What  a  weight  of  sin  I  had  heaped  upon  me  in  the  few 
years  of  life  I  called  mine.  And  the  deepest  guilt  of  all 
was  that  against  Annie. 

The  sleeping  child  grew  heavier  and  heavier ;  but  I 
seemed  bearing  a  burden  of  sin. 

With  uncertain  footstep  I  staggered  on  through  the 
dark  night.  The  storm  increased,  lashing  the  waves  and 
hurling  them  in  masses  of  curdled  foam  against  the 
rocky  shore.  More  than  once  I  felt  water  about  my  feet, 
as  though  the  maddened  lake  had  risen  to  drag  me  down. 
But  on  I  went,  heaving  and  panting,  the  cold  dews 
breaking  from  every  pore.  It  was  not  so  much  the 
physical  powers,  as  the  strength  of  soul  giving  way.  I 
experienced  a  weight  of  wretchedness  never  known 
before.  Tortured  by  regret  and  fear — by  an  utter  con- 
tempt, moreover,  of  self — I  had  reached  for  once  a  frame 
of  mind  that  might  enable  me  to  turn  upon  the  miserable 
I,  and  become  a  new  creature  perchance.  Who  knows 
but  that  I  was  near  the  blessed  victory,  when  lo  !  there 
was  the  light  from  my  mother's  window  appearing 
through  the  darkness  and  dispelling  my  thoughts.  It 
was  all  gone — grief  and  regret  and  emotion.  Would 
that  the  house  had  been  a  little  farther,  and  the  time 
gained  might  have  defrauded  hell  of  its  prey  ! 

Cold  and  shivering  I  entered  the  well-lit  room,  leaving 
outside  the  chastened  feelings  that  had  come  to  me  in 
the  troubled  night.  And  finding  myself  once  more  in 
the  cosy  chamber,  I  breathed  with  a  great  sense  of  relief. 

And  now  Lily  was  waking  from  her  sleep.  "  What  a 
beautiful  dream!  "  she  whispered,  with  half  opening  eyes, 
as  I  dropped  a  kiss  on  her  forehead  by  way  of  bidding 
her  good-night.  They  were  carrying  her  off  to  bed. 

The  following  morning  she  told  me  her  dream  : 

"I  thought  I  was  standing  by  the  side  of  a  river.  And 
presently  I  saw  St.  Christophorus  coming  towards  me 
with  the  Christ-Child  upon  his  shoulder.  He  stopped, 
and  the  Child  sat  down  by  me ;  we  played  with  grasses 
and  flowers,  singing  songs,  and  I  felt  very  happy.  But 
the  big  Christophorus  looked  down  upon  us,  leaning  on 
his  staff. 


158  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

"  We  twined  the  flowers  into  wreaths,  but  the  Child 
could  do  more  than  I.  It  made  a  cross,  and  then  a 
crown  of  thorns,  putting  that  upon  His  temples.  There 
were  tiny  red  flowers  between  the  stalks,  hanging  loosely 
over  the  forehead,  and  reminding  one  of  drops  of  blood. 
And  presently  the  Christ-Child  said  :  '  We  will  think  of 
something  else;  look  me  in  the  face — what  is  it  you  see  ? ' 
I  looked  and  seemed  to  behold,  firstly,  the  Sower  that 
went  forth  to  sow;  then  the  good  Samaritan,  and  it  was 
as  though  I  heard  Him  speak.  And  next  I  saw  the  Good 
Shepherd  carrying  the  lamb  in  His  bosom.  I  dare  say  I 
might  have  seen  more  had  not  a  question  come  to  me. 
'  Is  it  true  ? '  I  asked,  '  that  men  could  be  so  wicked  as 
to  hang  Thee  upon  the  Cross,  piercing  Thy  side  with  a 
spear  ? ' 

"  'Yes,'  said  the  Christ,  'see  here  My  hands,  and  see 
My  side! '  The  marks  were  red  as  blood,  and  I  cried 
bitterly.  'Weep  not,  little  Lily,'  said  He;  'I  do  not  feel 
it  now;  the  love  of  my  Father  in  heaven,  and  the  love  of 
my  brothers  and  sisters  upon  earth,  have  healed  it  long 
ago.' 

"We  had  been  silent  awhile,  when  the  Christ-Child 
resumed:  'Would  you  not  like  to  be  carried  a  little  by 
this  kind  Christophorus  ?  he  does  it  so  gently.  Where 
would  you  like  him  to  take  you  ? ' 

"  '  Well,'  I  said,  scarcely  considering,  '  I  always  had  a 
longing  for  the  Holy  Land.  But  that  is  a  long  way  off, 
and  I  should  have  to  leave  Thee  here." 

"  '  No,  Lily,  it  is  not  nearly  so  far  as  you  think,'  replied 
the  Christ,  'and  you  and  I  will  never  part.  You  will  find 
me  there  if  you  like  to  go.' 

"  I  rose,  and  Christophorus  took  me  upon  his  shoulder, 
carrying  me  far,  far  away.  By  day  he  followed  a  bright 
red  cloud,  by  night  a  shining  star.  It  was  the  star  of 
Bethlehem.  Through  many  lands  we  went,  hearing 
tongues  I  understood  not,  passing  mountains  and  rivers 
and  lakes,  and  going  over  the  great  sea  at  last.  There 
was  no  land  to  be  seen  now,  and  the  waves  rose  high  as 
mountains.  I  grew  afraid  lest  we  should  never  get 
through.  But  good  Christophorus  said:  '  Fear  not,  little 
child:  I  have  borne  my  dear  Lord  Christ;  I  shall  not  fail 
to  carry  thee.' 

"  And  after  many  days  we  reached  the  other  shore — it 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  159 

was  the  Holy  Land.  On  he  walked,  with  his  staff  in  his 
hand  and  me  upon  his  shoulder,  past  Jerusalem,  the 
white  walls  of  which  lay  sparkling  in  the  sunshine — the 
royal  city  looking  as  beautiful  as  ever  she  could  have 
been  in  the  days  of  yore.  Farther  still — not  far — and  he 
stopped  in  a  little  town  nestling  amid  her  hills.  Here 
the  star  stood  still.  It  was  Bethlehem. 

"  Christophorus  put  me  down  before  a  humble  inn. 

"  The  door  opened,  and,  lo,  the  Holy  Child  was  there, 
taking  me  by  the  hand  and  leading  me  in.  '  There  is 
only  a  manger  here,  little  Lily,  to  make  thee  welcome. 
But  one  day,  when  thou  art  weary  of  life,  I  will  take  thee 
to  a  mansion  above.'  " 

"  And  the  Christ-Child  drew  me  close — oh  so  lovingly 
— close,  quite  close,  and  kissed  me.  .  .  . 

"  I  awoke  ;  we  had  just  reached  home.  Ah,  Philip,  I 
would  have  liked  to  go  on  dreaming  forever  !  " 

"Well,  little  sister,"  I  said  gaily,  "  I  think  you  might 
be  satisfied.  Haven't  you  been  to  Bethlehem  and  back, 
and  seen  no  end  of  wonders  in  one  short  hour  ?  What 
more  could  you  expect  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "  you  are  right.  I  ought 
to  be  satisfied  till  Christ  bids  me  welcome  in  His 
mansion  above." 


LETTER    XX. 

I  HAD  been  seeking  for  Annie  too  long  already,  not  to 
have  all  but  given  up  hope  of  ever  meeting  her  again. 
She  seemed  utterly  vanished.  But  hell  is  large,  and  its 
inhabitants  are  not  to  be  numbered. 

Inquiry  for  her  quite  unsettled  my  mode  of  life.  I 
was  but  a  vagabond,  traveling  hither  and  thither,  driven 
onward  by  a  gnawing  need.  There  was  a  fire  within  me, 
and  I  thirsted  ;  living  man — no,  not  the  parched 
wanderer  in  the  desert  ever  knew  such  agony — thirsted 
for  Annie,  though  I  knew  she  was  but  as  a  broken  cistern 
that  can  hold  no  water,  and  unable,  therefore,  to  soothe 
my  pain.  She  had  lost  that  privilege  of  womanhood  in 
life  even — how  much  more  so  in  hell.  No  ;  Annie 
could  not  quench  my  thirst.  In  vain  she  keeps  wringing 


l6o  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

her  garments,  her  once  glorious  hair  ;  it  is  wet  and 
dripping,  though  never  a  drop  of  water  she  wrings  out  of 
it.  But  she  carries  that  about  with  her  which  would 
solve  a  terrible  mystery.  That  is  why  I  am  driven  to 
seek  her — thinking  and  dreaming  of  her  as  I  once  did  in 
life,  when  the  red  glow  coursed  through  my  veins,  and  I 
saw  in  her  but  a  flower  in  the  vast  realm  of  nature, 
unfolding  her  beauty  for  my  selfish  delight.  But  how 
different  now  !  It  was  not  love  that  drew  me — but  the 
dread  longing  to  read  in  her  face  concerning  that  awful 
likeness,  which  had  flashed  through  my  conscience  on 
meeting  her  before.  It  was  more  than  a  presentiment 
then — it  seemed  an  assurance  ;  still  I  wanted  proof 
to  determine  between  doubt  and  certainty.  She — she 
alone  could  be  the  witness  that  sealed  my  guilt.  Her 
features  had  spoken  ;  but  by  her  mouth  alone  could  I 
finally  be  convicted.  Yet,  even  though  I  found  her, 
could  I  hope  to  hear  her  voice  ?  My  heart  misgave  me 
— but  endeavor  to  find  her  I  must. 

At  last,  after  many  days,  the  desire  seemed  realized. 
I  came  upon  her  sitting  by  the  river,  motionless, 
and  gazing  into  the  turbid  flow,  as  though  about  to 
seek  death  in  its  embrace.  Hell,  after  all,  at  times  offers 
what  is  akin  to  satisfaction  :  for  a  moment  I  forgot  self 
and  everything  beside  me,  anxious  only  to  approach  her. 
As  a  gliding  shadow  I  moved  forward,  scarcely  to  be  dis- 
tinguished from  the  crawling  mists  that  haunt  those 
banks  of  darkness. 

I  was  able  to  watch  her  leisurely,  though  in  anguish 
and  with  trembling  soul,  examining  her  countenance  and 
questioning  her  every  feature.  It  was  all  pain  and  suffer- 
ing to  me  ;  but  I  forced  myself  to  the  task,  and  the  result 
was  utterly  startling,  an  effort  of  the  will  only  keeping 
me  from  jumping  to  my  feet.  How  could  I  have  believed 
Martin  to  be  her  very  image  !  There  was  a  likeness 
certainly,  but  not  more  than  might  be  merely  casual. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  I  experienced  anything  like 
relief  in  hell — strange  that  it  came  to  me  by  the  side  of 
that  ominous  river  !  A  feeling  of  comfort  all  but  super- 
seded the  pain  of  inquiry. 

My  eyes  devouring  her  greedily,  yielded  conviction. 
No — hers  was  no  likeness  to  Martin  that  need  trouble 
me.  But  there  was  a  likeness — to  whom  ? 


l.MTTKKS     FROM     HKLL.  x6l 

My  satisfaction  was  shortlived,  alas  !  A  new  horror 
laid  hold  of  me,  clutching  my.  every  fibre.  What  could 
it  be  ?  Doubt  pursued  by  certainty  darting  through  me 
— I  saw  it — Yes  !  Yes  !  Annie  was  not  like  Martin  ; 
she  was  like  that  girl  loved  by  Martin,  who  had  been 
the  last  object  of  my  earthly  desires, — whom  I  had  lifted 
from  poverty,  but  who  had  preferred  poverty  with  Martin 
to  a  palace  with  me  ! 

It  must  be  so — the  more  I  gazed  the  more  certain  I 
seemed.  This  then  was  Martin's  secret  that  should  have 
made  all  straight  between  us — that  girl  my  daughter,  and 
he,  Martin,  my  son  ! 

I  shook  with  horror  ;  again  the  words  kept  ringing  in 
my  brain  that  the  sins  of  the  father  shall  be  visited  upon 
the  children.  That  girl  my  child  !  So  near  had  I  been 
to  commit  a  crime  at  which  vice  itself  shrinks  back 
appalled.  My  own  daughter  !  Oh  heavens  of  mercy, 
where  indeed  shall  the  consequences  of  sin  find  their 
limit? 

Unutterable  anguish  laid  hold  o£  me.  There  she  sat, 
pale,  gloomy — a  very  image  of  pitiless  fate.  A  few  words 
of  hers  would  have  sufficed  to  dispel  the  misery  of  sus- 
pecting doubt. 

But  not  a  word  she  had  for  me  ;  her  soul  and  mine 
were  utterly  apart.  The  time  was  when  she  followed  me, 
though  I  took  her  to  the  road  of  hell.  Now  she  turned 
from  me,  and  had  I  been  able  to  show  her  the  way  to 
Paradise,  I  believe  she  would  have  spurned  me  with 
loathing. 

My  life  seems  one  mass  of  darkness,  but  I  see  innumer- 
able lights — some  heavenly,  some  earthly — illumining 
the  gloom.  It  is  more  especially  the  countless  proofs  of 
God's  fatherly  goodness  I  call  to  mind  ;  like  stars  I  see 
them  shining  through  the  night  of  my  sinful  folly. 

I  see  now  how  often  God  was  near  me,  how  often  His 
hand  was  upon  me  to  stop  me  in  the  downward  course  ; 
to  warn  me,  move  me,  draw  me  to  Him  in  unutterable 
mercy.  How  tender,  how  faithful,  how  long-suffering 
was  He  in  His  dealings  with  me,  following  me  in  pity  all 
the  days  of  my  life — as,  indeed,  He  follows  all  men.  Oh, 
think  of  it  my  brothers,  my  sisters,  ye,  whose  eyes  are  not 
yet  closed  in  death.  He  is  following  you,  loving  you 


l62  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

daily,  always !  But  I  spurned  the  touch  of  that  hand, 
not  caring  for  His  love,  and  I  am  lost  now,  having  my 
portion  with  the  ungodly  in  the  place  of  wailing  and 
gnashing  of  teeth. 

I  could  not  but  be  moved  sometimes.  The  hand 
reaching  down  from  heaven  was  too  plainly  to  be  felt; 
the  blessings  it  spread  about  my  path  were  too  great  for 
even  me  to  disregard  them.  There  were  times  when  I 
felt  I  ought  to  kiss  that  hand  of  mercy,  pouring  out  tears 
of  repentant  gratitude.  My  heart  would  be  softened 
and  stirred  to  the  depth.  If  sorrow  for  sin  was  weak, 
yet  resolutions  to  mend  my  ways  seemed  strong,  and  I 
believed  I  should  never  again  forget  how  good  the  Lord 
had  been. 

But  forget  I  did,  losing  sight  of  everything — love, 
gratitude,  benefit,  and  resolve — ay,  of  God  Himself  ! 
Nor,  was  it  mere  forgetting — no,  I  cared  not  to  remem- 
ber; turning  away  so  fully,  that  when  trouble  once  more 
overtook  me,  I  never  even  thought  of  Him  who  had 
helped  me  and  pitied  me  before. 

Yes,  let  me  confess  it  loudly,  it  is  not  the  fault  of  God 
that  I  did  not  come  forth  from  earth's  besetting  dangers 
a  redeemed  and  blessed  soul ! 

The  parable  of  the  Good  Shepherd  giving  His  life  for 
the  sheep,  how  simple  it  is,  and  how  it  speaks  to  the 
heart  ?  And  that  love  is  not  only  for  the  flock  as  a 
whole,  but  for  each  individual  sheep — ever  leaving  the 
ninety  and  nine  to  go  after  that  which  is  gone  astray. 
And  how  tenderly  will  He  seek  for  it,  and,  if  so  be  that 
He  find  it,  carry  it  home  rejoicing  ! 

Yes,  I  feel  it  now,  if  I  did  not  feel  it  then,  that  all 
through  my  sinful  life  there  was  One  seeking  me  in 
sorrow  and  in  hope,  ay — and  finding  me  again  and  again! 
But  I  would  not  stay  in  the  fold,  preferring  my  own 
dark  ways  to  His  watchful  guidance.  I  would  not,  and 
lo,  I  am  lost ! 

I  never  was  visited  by  serious  illness  after  that  first 
trouble  at  the  outset  of  manhood  till  the  days  of  my  final 
agony;  but  I  once  suffered  from  inflammation  of  the  eyes, 
which  necessitated  my  abiding  for  several  weeks  in  a 
darkened  room.  That  was  a  time  of  misery — not  merely 
a  trial  to  patience,  but  simply  awful.  T  gained  a 
pretty  clear  idea  of  the  signal  punishment  inflicted  by 


the  solitary  confinement  system  in  prisons.  To  a  heart 
burdened  with  evil  recollections  there  can  be  no  greater 
misery  than  solitude.  Days  and  nights  were  crawling 
past  alike  in  gloom;  and  it  seemed  to  me  not  only  that 
darkness  itself  increased,  but  that  I  was  engulfed  by  it 
more  and  more.  And  yet  that  darkness  was  but  a  feeble 
foretaste  of  the  night  enclosing  me  here;  I  thought  it 
fearful  then;  it  would  be  mercy  now. 

I  had  plenty  of  so-called  friends,  but  somehow  not 
many  cared  to  visit  me  ;  it  was  not  pleasant,  I  suppose,  to 
share  my  confinement  and  listen  to  my  dismal  grum- 
blings. 

So  I  was  left  alone  for  the  most  part.  Alone  ? — nay, 
I  had  company.  My  better  self  had  a  chance  now 
of  being  heard.  I  had  forgotten  it,  neglected  it,  banished 
it  for  years.  But  it  had  found  me  out,  seizing  upon  my 
loneliness  to  confront  me,  darkness  not  being  an  obstacle. 
I  disliked  it  exceedingly,  yet  what  could  I  do  but  listen. 
It  had  come  to  upbraid  me,  contending  with  me,  and  left 
me  no  peace. 

There  are  two  selves  in  every  man,  never  at  unity  with 
one  another,  although  theirs  is  a  brotherhood  closer  than 
that  of  Castor  and  Pollux  ;  struggling  continuously,  not 
because  love  is  wanting,  but  because  contention  is  their 
very  nature.  That  duality  in  man  is  the  outcome  of  sin. 
If  he  could  be  saved  from  it,  sin  with  all  its  consequen- 
ces would  cease  to  enthral  him.  And  there  is  a  release, 
as  I  found  out  in  those  darkened  days.  We  wrestled 
without  a  hope  of  conciliation.  There  is  not  a  more 
stiff-necked  or  inflexible  being  than  what  is  called  the 
better  self.  Not  one  iota  would  it  yield  ;  but  I  was  to 
give  up  everything,  should  strip  myself  entirely  to  the 
death  even  of  self.  But  I  would  not;  perhaps  I  could  not. 

Yes  I  could,  if  I  would  !  For  presently  I  perceived 
that  we  were  not  two  but  three  ;  two  warring,  and  a  third 
one  trying  to  mediate  in  earnest  love.  I  could  oppose 
the  better  self,  but  Him  I  dared  not  contradict.  I  felt  it 
too  plainly  that  He  was  right,  and  that  through  Him 
only  I  could  be  at  peace  with  myself  and  begin  a  new 
life.  I  knew  who  he  was,  the  Meditator,  not  only 
between  me  and  that  other  self,  but  between  me  and  the 
righteous  God — the  only-begotten  Son,  once  born  in  the 
flesh. 


164  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

In  those  days  I  was  His  prisoner.  There  was  no 
escaping  in  the  dark  corner  in  which  he  faced  me — the 
Good  Shepherd  had  found  the  wandering  sheep,  His  arms 
were  about  me,  and  He  was  ready  to  take  me  home. 
But  the  willingness  was  only  on  His  side  ;  I  cared  not, 
suffering  him  with  a  negative  endurance  merely,  and  not 
wanting  to  be  kept  fast.  There  was  something  within 
me  waiting  but  for  opportunity  to  break  away  from  the 
Shepherd's  hold. 

Nor  was  opportunity  wanting  ;  it  is  ever  at  hand  when 
looked  for  by  perversity.  The  evil  one  had  nowise 
yielded  his  part  in  me,  and  required  but  little  effort  to 
assert  it. 

He  invented  an  amusement  that  needed  no  light.  One 
of  my  friends  was  his  messenger,  and  I  received  him 
open-armed  as  a  very  liberator.  Delightful  pastime — 
that  game  of  hazard — that  could  be  played  in  the  dark  ! 

We  played,  my  friend  and  I — no,  the  enemy  and 
myself  ;  for  my  companion  was  no  other  than  the  prince 
of  darkness  ;  the  stakes — I  knew  it  not  then,  but  I  know 
it  now — being  nothing  less  than  my  soul's  salvation. 
With  such  an  expert  I  could  not  of  course  compete  ;  he 
won — I  lost. 

I  remember  a  glorious  evening  on  the  Mediterranean. 
The  day  had  been  sultry,  but  towards  sunset  a  gentle 
wind  had  risen,  and  the  cool  air  from  the  north-west, 
fanned  the  deck.  The  waves  ro?e  and  sank  in  even 
cadence,  their  silvery  crests  sparkling  far  and  wide.  A 
playful  troop  of  dolphins  gamboied  round  the  vessel. 

The  sun  had  just  dipped  his  radiant  front  in  the  cool- 
ing waters  ;  dashes  of  gold,  amid  a  deeper  glow  of  purple 
and  red,  burned  in  the  western  horizon,  beyond  the 
Ionian  sea,  enhancing  an  aspect  of  unutterable  loveli- 
ness. To  our  left  was  the  splendid  island  of  Cythera, 
and,  rising  beyond  it,  with  clear  outlines  and  deepening 
shadows,  the  majestic  hills  of  Maina,  where  Sparta  once 
was.  To  our  right  the  beauteous  Candia,  with  the 
heaven-kissing  Ida,  the  snowy  summit  of  which  was  even 
now  blushing  in  a  rapture  of  parting  light. 

Lily  sat  silent  and  almost  motionless,  leaning  against 
the  bulwark,  her  hands  pressed  to  her  bosom,  gazing 
absently  toward  the  coast  of  Morea.  The  wind  played 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  165 

caressingly  with  a  curl  of  her  silky  hair.  I  knew  not 
what  to  admire  most,  the  glorious  panorama,  or  the 
girlish  figure  that  formed  so  lovely  a  centre.  My  eyes 
rested  on  her,  drinking  in  her  beauty — ha !  what  was 
that  ?  Uneasily  she  breathed,  her  chest  heaving,  her  face 
turned  to  me  with  an  expression  of  anguished  distress.  I 
saw  that  flush  and  pallor  strove  for  the  mastery  in  her 
face,  and  that  her  spirit  battled  against  some  unknown  foe. 

"What  is  it,  Lily  ?"  I  cried,  repressing  emotion. 

"  I  know  not,"  she  said,  with  a  troubled  sigh.  "  I  felt 
a  horrible  weight  on  my  soul.  But  be  not  anxious,  my 
friend,  it  is  gone  already." 

And  indeed  she  looked  herself  again.  I  took  her  hand, 
and  we  sat  side  by  side,  not  talking.  The  night 
descended  slowly — a  night  of  paradise.  The  land  dis- 
appeared in  folds  of  gray,  the  summit  of  Ida  only 
preserving  a  faint  flush,  and  the  darkening  dome  above 
shone  forth  in  myriads  of  sparkling  lights. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Lily  ?  "  I  asked,  presently 
closing  my  hand  on  hers. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you,  Philip  ?  "  she  responded  softly,  look- 
ing me  full  in  the  face.  "  I  just  remembered  a  little 
story  ;  would  you  like  to  hear  it  ? "  And  she  began  : 

"  There  was  a  poor  man  whose  pious  parents  left  him 
no  fortune  save  an  honest  name  and  a  good,  God-loving 
heart  ;  and  although  in  this  he  had  riches  without 
measure,  yet  the  world  accounted  him  poor. 

"  It  went  well  with  him  at  first,  but  by  degrees  he 
tasted  trouble.  He  lost  the  small  fortune  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  saving  by  dint  of  work.  And  the  people 
pointed  to  him  saying  :  '  Poor  wretch  ! ' 

"  '  No,  not  poor,'  he  said  ;  '  God  is  my  portion  ! ' 

"  But  misfortune  pursued  him.  Most  of  his  so-called 
friends  turned  their  back  on  him,  and  those  even  whom 
he  had  trusted  most,  proved  faithless.  He  was  deceived, 
calumniated,  misjudged. 

"  And  people  shook  their  heads  saying  :  '  How 
wretched  and  miserable  you  are,  to  be  sure  ! ' 

"'No,'  he  said,  though  his  voice  trembled,  'not 
wretched,  for  God  is  my  portion  ! ' 

"  But  the  greatest  trouble  of  all  now  laid  him  low  ;  he 
lost  his  loving  wife,  and  his  only  child.  The  suffering 
man  stood  alone  in  a  heartless  world, 


1 66  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

"  Again  the  people  said,  shrugging  their  shoulders  : 
'  Surely  now  you  will  own  yourself  miserable  and 
wretched,  a  very  butt  of  trouble  ! ' 

" '  No,'  he  cried,  repressing  the  welling  tears,  '  God 
is  yet  my  portion  ! ' 

"  And  the  people  turned  from  him,  saying  he  was 
singular  and  strange,  and  nicknaming  him  John  Comfort 
in  virtue  of  his  peculiarity. 

"  But  he,  truly,  was  not  wretched,  nor  indeed  forsaken. 
The  last  words  he  was  heard  to  speak  on  earth  were  : 
'  (Jod  in  heaven  is  my  portion  ! ' 

"  And  he  entered  into  the  joy  of  his  Lord." 

Did  Lily  love  me  ?  Again  and  again  I  ask  myself  this 
question.  You  will  think  it  ought  to  be  of  little  conse- 
quence to  me  now.  But  not  so.  Since  all  is  vanity  and 
nothingness,  here,  the  past  only  remains  to  be  looked  to  ; 
and  even  the  sure  knowledge  that  her  love  was  mine 
would  be  unspeakable  comfort.  But  hell  is  void  of  com- 
fort. Shall  I  ever  find  an  answer  to  that  question  ? 

Again  and  again  I  have  gone  over  the  whole  of  my  in- 
tercourse with  her,  trying  to  understand  her  part  of  the 
relation  between  us.  Sometimes  I  have  seemed  to 
arrive  at  a  'yes,'  and  then  a  bitter  'no'  wipes  out  the 
happy  conviction.  She  knew  me  from  childhood,  seeing 
a  brother  in  me,  no  doubt — an  elder  brother  even,  for  the 
discrepancy  of  years  must  have  been  against  me.  And 
she,  whose  heart  from  her  tenderest  youth  had  been 
directed  to  heaven,  how  should  she,  how  could  she,  have 
fastened  her  affections  on  such  a  clod  of  earth  as  I  was  ? 
And  she  died  so  young,  in  the  happiest  age  of  ideals. 

But  still,  if  I  call  back  to  mind  the  tenderness  with 
which  she  ever  surrounded  me,  the  entire  devotion  that 
yielded  to  me  with  such  loving  surrender,  and  made  her 
look  to  me  as  to  her  guide  and  guardian  ;  and  consider- 
ing that  I  was  the  only  one  of  my  sex  she  was  brought 
into  close  contact  with,  I  say  to  myself — surely  she  loved 
me,  she  cannot  but  have  loved  me!  Not  with  a  feeling 
like  mine,  but  with  her  own  sweet  affection,  that  love 
divine,  passionless  and  pure,  which  so  often  spoke  to  my 
soul  in  intercourse  with  her,  but  which  never  found  root 
in  my  heart. 

And  I  cannot  forget  that  in  dying  something  seemed 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  167 

present  with  her,  resembling  the  perfect  love  of  holiest 
woman.  It  made  efforts  to  flow  into  words,  it  hovered  on 
her  lips,  shining  in  her  eyes,  but  it  found  not  expression. 
It  had  not  reached  the  ripeness  which  speaks,  and  it  died 
with  her,  as  an  unborn  babe  with  the  mother  that  would 
have  given  it  life.  Is  it  possible  that  it  was  love  to  me 
which,  even  in  her  last  moments,  glorified  her  beauty  ? 

Did  she  love  me — yes  or  no  ?  Alas,  I  keep  asking, 
and  who  shall  give  me  an  answer  ?  She  never  had  any 
secret  from  me.  If  indeed  she  loved  me,  that  was  the 
one  secret,  hidden  surely  to  herself  even,  and  she  took  it 
with  her  to  the  other  life.  .  .  . 

As  a  dream  I  remember  the  days  we  spent  at  Bethle- 
hem— a  dream,  though  I  hardly  closed  my  eyes. 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  we  obtained  admittance  to  a 
small  cottage  bordering  upon  the  great  cloister  gardens. 
There  she  lay,  pale  as  a  lily,  beautiful  to  the  last,  even  in 
death.  And  the  paler  she  grew  the  deeper  glowed  the 
brightness  of  her  wondrous  eyes.  It  was  as  if  the  very 
star  of  Bethlehem  she  loved  to  think  of  had  found  a 
dwelling  in  her  gaze.  Nor  was  she  white  with  that  livid 
pallor  which  death  casts  on  features  in  which  his  linger- 
ing touch  has  wrought  havoc;  it  was  rather  a  transparent 
whiteness  glorifying  mortality  and  testifying  against  its 
victory  far  more  loudly  than  health's  rosiest  bloom. 

Night  followed  day,  and  day  night,  the  time  for  us 
flowing  unmeasured;  I  know  not  how  it  passed.  The 
cloister  bells  kept  ringing  almost  continuously,  excruciat- 
ing to  my  grief ;  for  it  seemed  to  me  as  though,  with 
heartless  voice,  they  were  tolling  out  the  life  of  my 
beloved.  No  one  heeded  us,  but  the  prior  one  day  sent 
some  consecrated  palm  branches,  which  appeared  to 
delight  Lily.  I  fastened  them  above  her  couch. 

As  life  ebbed  away  her  unrest  increased.  She  asked 
to  be  moved.  She  was  too  weak  herself,  and  I  lifted  her 
in  my  arms,  my  mother  smoothing  the  couch.  Alas,  it 
was  the  first  time  since  she  had  quitted  childhood  that  I 
dared  take  her  into  my  arms.  And,  unconsciously,  she 
clasped  my  neck  to  steady  my  hold.  Oh,  the  touch  of 
love  !  but  how  late  it  came,  late  because  dying  !  I  could 
not  keep  back  my  tears,  and  they  fell  on  her  upturned 
face. 

"  My   friend,"   she   said,    amid    heavenly   smiles — my 


1 68  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

heart  yet  trembles  at  the  memory — "  tears,  my  friend, 
and  I  so  happy  ?  I  do  not  suffer  in  the  least,  and  soon, 
soon,  it  will  all  be  over.  There  is  but  one  thing  grieving 
me.  I  long  for  the  Paradise  of  God,  my  soul's  home, 
where  peace  and  joy  await  me.  I  shall  soon  be  there — 
without  you,  Philip  !  But  not  for  long.  We  shall  be 
united  again  where  there  is  no  more  parting." 

Her  voice  was  nearly  inaudible,  and  her  breathing 
troubled.  As  a  spirit-whisper  those  words  touched  my 
ear  : 

"  My  friend,"  she  resumed  after  awhile,  "  how  sweet  it 
was  to  call  you  thus  !  Yes,  Philip,  I  may  tell  you  now, 
I  loved  that  name  for  the  best  part  of  my  life.  .  .  .  Yet 
there  was  a  depth  of  meaning  in  it  which  I  seemed  not 
to  fathom  entirely,  however  much  I  endeavored  to  be 
true  and  loving  to  you.  ...  I  often  felt  you  deserved 
a  greater  and  fuller  affection  than  I  was  able  to  give 
you  .  .  .  and  yet  those  were  happy  moments  when  I 
tried  to  understand  the  high  meaning  of  that  sweet 
name.  .  .  .  But  there  seemed  something  hidden  in  it, 
— something  I  could  not  reach, — which,  if  I  had  it, 
would  make  happiness  perfect.  I  have  not  found  it. 
...  I  go  to  God  now,  and  there,  Philip,  all  will  be 
given  ...  we  shall  be  calling  each  other  friend  in  His 
presence  to  all  eternity  .  .  .  the  measure  of  happiness 
will  be  full !  " 

Her  physical  unease  reached  such  a  pitch  that  lying 
down  became  impossible.  I  took  her  into  my  arms, 
sitting  down  on  the  edge  of  her  couch,  her  head  leaning 
against  my  heart,  and  by  degrees  quietude  returned. 

I  sat  holding  her,  hour  merging  into  hour ;  God  alone 
knew  what  I  suffered.  She  moved  not — her  eyes  were 
closed ;  the  slow  faint  breathing  only,  and  the  scarcely 
perceptible  throbbing  of  her  heart,  showed  that  life  had 
not  yet  fled.  I  held  her  hand  in  mine — cold,  alas, 
already — and  anxiously  I  watched  the  sinking  pulse.  I 
lived  in  its  beating  only,  but  oh,  what  hopeless  living  ! 
The  hand  grew  icy,  the  pulse  becoming  slower  and 
slower;  it  could  not  last  much  longer. 

Suddenly  she  raised  her  eyes,  suffused  with  a  light  of 
unearthly  kindling,  and  whispered  gently,  "  My  friend  !  " 
As  a  fleeting  breath  the  words  escaped  her  lips,  but  I 
understood  them,  with  a  holy  kiss  bending  to  her  brow. 


I.ETTKRS     FROM     HELL.  '     169 

Again  she  moved  her  lips,  but  no  further  sound  fell  on 
my  ear.  She  had  told  me  once  that  she  loved  the  habit 
of  the  ancient  Church  that  joined  a  blessing  to  the 
Cross,  and  involuntarily  I  made  the  holy  sign  to  her 
dying  eyes. 

She  understood  it,  a  smile  glorifying  her  features  as 
with  a  reflection  of  heaven's  peace.  Vision  faded,  the 
lids  closing  slowly.  A  gentle  sigh,  and  she  was  gone. 
Lily's  dead  body  rested  against  my  heart. 

Submission  I  knew  not.  The  frail  maiden  had  upheld 
me;  she  gone,  strength  and  self-possession  vanished. 
For  days  and  weeks  I  was  as  one  without  reason,  a  prey, 
to  devouring  grief.  But  of  that  I  write  nothing. 


LETTER   XXI. 

IT  is  long  since  I  wrote  to  you.  Often  I  have  taken 
up  the  pen,  but  only  to  drop  it  again  in  despair.  It 
seemed  impossible  to  describe  what  I  have  seen.  But  it 
weighs  upon  the  heart,  urging  me  to  tell  you,  however 
feebly.  Having  confided  so  much  to  you,  I  ought  not  to 
keep  this  crowning  experience  to  myself.  Listen,  then, 
to  what  I  have  to  impart  to  you  in  sorrow. 

The  great  moment  was  fast  drawing  near.  Darkness 
seemed  being  engulfed  by  the  abyss  more  and  more 
rapidly — light  with  us  reaching  its  fullness  in  a  transpar- 
ent dawn;  but  far,  far  away,  beyond  the  gulf,  a  great 
daybreak  was  bursting  the  confines-  of  night.  I  knew 
the  fair  land  of  the  blessed  was  about  to  be  revealed.  It 
was  a  wondrous  radiance,  increasing  quickly,  and  trans- 
fusing the  distant  shore  with  hues  of  unknown  and  inde- 
scribable loveliness.  In  dreams  only,  or  wnen  yielding 
to  the  magic  of  music,  a  faint  foretaste  of  such  glory 
may  come  to  the  human  soul. 

Hell  seemed  captivated,  the  whole  of  its  existence 
culminating  in  an  all-pervading  sense  of  dread;  millions 
of  hungry-eyed  souls  drawn  toward  a  self-same  goal. 
Some  like  pillars  of  salt  stood  motionless,  gazing  into 
the  brightening  glow;  others  had  sunk  to  their  knees; 
others  again,  falling  to  the  ground,  sought  to  hide  their 
faces;  while  some  in  hopeless  defiance  refused  to  look. 


iyo  J.KTTKRS     FROM     HELL. 

But  I  stood  in  fear  and  trembling,  forgetful  of  all  but 
the  vision  at  hand. 

And  suddenly  it  seemed  as  if  a  great  veil  were  rent 
asunder,  torrents  of  light  overflowing  their  banks,  and 
the  wide  heavens  steeped  in  flame.  A  sigh  bursting  from 
untold  millions  of  lost  ones  ended  in  a  wail  of  sorrow 
that  went  quivering  through  the  spaces  of  hell.  I  heard 
and  saw  no  more.  As  one  struck  by  lightning  I  had 
fallen  on  my  face. 

How  long  I  lay  thus  confounded  I  know  not ;  but 
when  again  I  lifted  my  dazzled  eyes,  there  was  a  clear, 
steady  glow,  a  beneficent  radiance  that  admitted  of  my 
looking  into  it,  not  blinding  vision.  Still  I  had  to 
accustom  my  sight  to  it ;  it  seemed  a  vast  ocean  of  light 
that  by  degrees  only  assumed  color  and  shape  ;  dawning 
forth  to  the  raptured  gaze  as  a  world  of  beauty  and  love- 
liness, such  as  eye  has  not  seen  and  the  mind  is  unable 
to  grasp.  But  never  for  a  moment  did  I  doubt  the  real- 
ity. I  knew  it  was  the  land  of  bliss,  even  Paradise, 
unfolding  to  my  view.  At  first  it  seemed  as  though 
islands  and  distant  shores  grew  visible  in  that  sea  of 
light,  gentle  harmonies  of  color  floating  about  them.  But 
gradually  the  scattered  parts  united,  forming  a  perfect 
whole,  a  world  of  bliss  immeasurably  vast.  Yet,  infinite 
as  it  appeared,  it  formed  but  a  single  country — a  garden 
abounding  in  blessing,  in  beauty,  in  delight.  The  love- 
liest spots  on  earth  are  as  desert  places  in  comparison. 
I  have  no  other  words  to  describe  it.  To  do  so  fully  and 
justly  I  had  need  to  be  an  angel,  and  you  know  what  I 
am — one  who  might  have  been  an  angel,  but  lost  now 
and  forever  undone. 

Trembling  with  awe  and  enchantment  I  gazed  into 
Paradise,  deeper  and  deeper,  encompassing,  no  doubt, 
thousands  of  miles.  For,  strange  as  the  aspect  was,  the 
power  of  vision  given  was  stranger  still ;  my  spirit  seemed 
roaming  through  vast  realms  of  glory,  all  their  beauties 
laid  bare  to  my  tranced  sense.  I  felt  the  balmy  breezes, 
I  heard  the  rustle  of  trees,  the  gentle  cadence  of  waters. 
It  was  allowed  me  to  see  every  perfect  fruit,  every  lovely 
flower,  every  drop  of  dew  reflecting  the  light.  I  saw, 
heard,  felt,  drank  in  the  fill  of  beauty.  There  was  music 
everywhere,  speaking  the  language  of  nature  glorified. 
Not  a  dewdrop  sparkling,  not  a  tree-top  rustling,  not  a 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  171 

flower  opening,  but  it  swelled  the  heavenly  psaim  ;  all 
sounds  floating  together  in  harmony,  wondrous  and  pure. 
As  yet  I  saw  no  living  soul ;  but  songs  of  joy,  of  exultant 
praise,  resounded  everywhere,  nature  and  spirit  uniting 
in  one  perfect  hymn.  What  shall  I  say,  but  that  infinite 
bliss,  unspeakable  happiness,  and  heavenly  peace,  flashed 
delight  into  my  soul  with  a  thousand  daggers  of  longing ! 

This  then  was  Eden,  I  seemed  all  but  in  it,  and  yet 
how  far — how  far  !  Of  all  that  glory  not  a  ray  of  light 
for  me,  not  a  flower  even,  or  a  drop  of  dew  !  Ah  gracious 
heavens,  not  a  drop  of  water — not  a  single  tear  ! 

But  where  were  they,  the  souls  whom  no  man  hath 
counted,  the  saved  ones,  redeemed  from  the  world  ? 
Not  one  of  them  I  had  seen  as  yet.  The  garden  seemed 
as  untrodden  of  human  foot  as  on  the  day  when  Adam 
and  Eve  had  been  driven  forth  by  him  with  the  flaming 
sword.  "Where  are  ye,  my  loved  ones,  if  not  in  the 
heaven  I  see  ? "  My  heart  cried  out  for  them,  longing, 
thirsting — Aunt  Betty  somehow  rising  first  to  my  mind. 
Why  she,  I  cannot  tell,  since  there  is  another  nearer  and 
dearer  to  my  soul. 

But  while  I  thought  of  her,  behold  herself !  Yes, 
there  she  was,  I  opening  my  arms  to  clasp  her ;  but,  ah 
me,  there  is  a  great  gulf  fixed,  and  no  passing  across  it ! 
Yet  I  saw  her,  dear  Aunt  Betty — saw  her  as  plainly  as 
though  I  need  but  stretch  forth  my  hand  to  draw  her  to 
my  embrace.  It  was  she,  and  yet  how  changed  !  glori- 
fied to  youth  and  beauty  everlasting,  the  same  to 
recognizing  vision,  but  perfected,  and  spotless  as  the 
white  raiment  she  wore.  Some  happy  thought  seemed 
moving  in  her  as  she  walked  the  paths  of  content, 
crowned  with  a  halo  of  peace.  I  saw  she  was  happy  ; 
I  saw  it  in  the  light  of  her  eyes,  in  the  smile  hovering 
about  her  mouth  ;  she  had  conquered,  and  sorrow  and 
grief  had  vanished  with  the  world. 

I  was  deeply  moved,  to  the  pouring  forth  of  my  soul 
even  in  weeping  ;  but  what  boots  emotion  if  the  eyes  are 
a  dried-up  well  !  I  thought  of  the  love  and  self-for- 
getting kindness  she  had  ever  shown  to  me  in  the  days 
of  her  life.  Now  only  I  knew  how  much  she  had  been 
to  me — now  only  I  understood  her.  For — marvelous 
yet  true — I  not  only  saw  her  :  I  was  permitted  even  to 
read  her  heart.  All  she  had  suffered — her  every  bat- 


172  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

tling  and  victory — lay  open  to  my  view  as  a  finished 
tale.  Yes,  I  understood  her  as  I  had  never  done  before. 
Long  ago  when  she  was  young,  my  father  had  been  a 
true  brother  to  her  in  a  time  of  bitter  sorrow,  offering 
her  the  shelter  of  his  love  when  she  found  the  world 
empty  and  cold.  She  had  never  forgotten  that — her 
grateful  heart  vowing  to  him  the  remainder  of  her  life  in 
the  service  of  sisterly  devotion.  She  had  kept  that  vow 
fully,  fondly.  That  was  the  key  to  her  life.  And  her 
beautiful  sacrifice  of  love  enriched  not  only  my  father, 
but  all  she  could  help  and  cherish,  souls  without  number, 
of  whom  I  was  chief. 

My  father — Lily  !  my  heart  was  reverting  to  both 
simultaneously.  And  oh,  rapture  ! — I  beheld  them  even 
now  emerging  from  a  shady  grove.  Aunt  Betty  seemed 
to  be  meeting  them. 

The  sight  of  Lily  was  more  than  I  could  bear,  a  film 
overspreading  my  senses.  It  seemed  at  first  as  though 
both  had  appeared  but  to  vanish  ;  but  no — in  perfect 
clearness  and  heavenly  calm  these  beloved  ones  moved 
in  my  vision.  Nothing  of  outward  beauty,  nor  yet  of  the 
heart's  secret  history,  being  hid  from  me.  Truly  I  had 
never  known  them,  never  seen  them  aright  before. 

O  Lily  !  beautiful  even  on  earth  and  of  sweetest 
womanhood,  but  surpassingly  beautiful  in  the  fullness  of 
Paradise.  Mortal  eye  has  not  seen  such  loveliness  glori- 
fied to  transcendent  charm.  Nay,  human  imagination  is 
too  poor  to  reach  even  to  the  hem  of  her  garment. 
"  Holy  and  sanctified  ! "  seemed  to  be  written  in  her 
every  feature,  surrounding  her  with  a  halo  of  praise.  It 
spoke  from  her  crown  of  glory,  from  the  palm  of  victory 
she  carried,  from  her  robe  of  righteousness  whiter  than 
snow.  And  as  she  lifted  her  shining  eyes,  it  was  as 
though  their  gaze  enfolded  me  ;  I  trembled  and  glowed, 
as  a  flickering  flame  touched  by  a  kindling  breath.  And 
that  angel  smile  of  perfect  bliss  accompanying  the  look 
seemed  meant  for  me — even  me.  But  that  was  illusion. 
None  of  them  can  see  us  here — thank  God  !  I  saw  her  ; 
she  was  near  me  in  spirit  vision,  but  in  truth  she  was  far, 
far  away  ;  and  the  blessed  ones  in  Paradise  are  saved 
from  the  thought  of  hell  and  its  every  horror.  Yet  the 
separating  gulf  does  not  separate  me  from  her  inmost 
thought.  Woe  is  me !  shall  I  weep,  or  dare  I  rejoice  ? 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  173 

I  can  read  in  her  pious  heart  as  in  an  open  book  !  Ah 
me,  what  do  I  read  ?  I  see  it — see  it  as  in  clearest  writ- 
ing that  she  loved  me  with  all  her  soul — truly,  if  uncon- 
sciously, with  the  deepest  purest  giving  of  virgin  bride. 
Ay  more,  she  loves  me  still  !  she  is  thinking  of  me,  long- 
ing for  me  with  a  longing  as  painless  as  pure.  For  it  is 
in  hell  only  that  pain  and  grief  are  known. 

What  more  can  I  say  ?  Despair,  my  daily  portion,  is 
as  a  blazing  fire  feeding  on  my  soul,  sometimes  sinking 
in  ashes,  but  never  dying.  At  that  moment  of  sweetest 
bitterest  conviction,  the  flame  seemed  fostered  by  denial, 
the  very  essence  of  hell.  Bliss  and  delight  veering 
round  to  despair,  my  whole  miserable  existence  flared 
up  in  an  all-consuming  agony. 

"  See  what  might  have  been  yours,  but  you  have  lost  it 
— lost !  "  was  the  ever-recurring  cry  of  my  tortured  soul. 
Can  you  wonder  that  I  hardly  heeded  my  good  pious 
father  who  walked  beside  her,  sharing  her  felicity  ? — that 
I  cannot  remember  a  single  word  passing  between  them 
— nay,  heard  not  for  very  anguish  ?  Had  I  been  quiet 
to  listen,  no  doubt  I  would  have  heard  mention  of  my 
name,  might  have  heard  them  speak  of  me  in  heavenly 
tenderness.  But,  having  seen  Lily,  and  read  in  her  very 
heart  the  assurance  that  she  loved  me,  I  heard  and  saw 
no  more.  "  See  what  might  have  been  yours,  but  you 
threw  it  away,  threw  it  away"  !  I  writhed  in  despair. 
Vain  was  my  effort  to  lift  eyes  to  her  once  more — I 
could  not — could  not !  And  with  a  cry  of  horror  I  fell 
back  upon  myself. 


LETTER   XXII. 

SINCE  you  heard  from  me  last — and  there  seems  to 
have  been  a  longer  pause  than  usual — I  have  roamed 
about  in  aimless  adventure. 

There  are  no  accurate  means  of  estimating  either  dis- 
tance in  hell,  or  the  speed  of  our  travels;  I  expect  that 
both  are  astounding.  Time  and  space  here  can  only  be 
spoken  of  in  an  abstract  sort  of  way,  as  existing  in 
thought  merely.  Consequently  there  are  hardly  two 


174  LETTERS     PROM     HELL. 

souls    amongst    us    that   would   agree   concerning    the 
measure  of  either.     But  that  holds  true  of  anything. 

Since  everything,  then,  is  imaginary,  unanimity  is 
merely  accidental,  and  what  is  called  haimony  on  earth 
not  to  be  found  here.  That  a  number  of  souls  by  social 
instinct,  and  under  force  of  habit,  should  unite  at  a  given 
place  for  a  given  object  by  no  means  is  proof  of  con- 
cord. For  concord  presupposes  liberty,  whereas  such 
souls  are  under  downright  compulsion,  and,  apart  from 
the  instinct  which  drives  them  in  a  common  direction,  in 
nowise  at  unity  among  themselves. 

My  roamings,  then  are  no  free-will  undertaking. 
Whenever  I  feel  especially  miserable  and  desponding, 
there  is  a  sense  of  relief  in  dashing  about  blindly  with 
no  other  object  but  that  of  moving.  Blindly,  I  say — 
meaning  heedless  of  obstacles;  pushing  through  walls, 
mountains,  houses,  trees — through  living  creatures  even 
if  they  are  in  my  way.  The  latter,  of  course,  is  not 
altogether  pleasant;  fancy  rushing  through  man  or  beast 
in  your  aimless  hurry.  But  one  gets  used  to  everything 
here.  "  Oh,  distracted  soul  !  "  your  neighbor  cries,  and 
is  satisfied  you  should  pass.  We  are  always  suiting  our- 
.selves  to  circumstances,  you  see.  Are  you  surprised  that 
I  should  yield  to  such  madness  of  motion?  True,  every 
one  here  has  his  or  her  congenial  abode;  so  have  I,  lead- 
ing, as  you  know,  a  sickening  life.  But  I  am  helpless 
once  the  frenzy  seizes  me,  unhinging  my  very  existence, 
and  away  I  hie  me,  as  driven  by  despair. 

Yes,  that  it  is — despair  and  nothing  else,  engendering 
a  need,  amounting  to  passion  almost,  of  trying  to  escape 
from  oneself,  or  at  least  to  stupefy  oneself. 

Neither  the  one  nor  the  other  is  possible;  in  the  world 
one  succeeds  at  times,  never  in  hell.  But  that  knowledge 
does  not  restrain  me;  again  and  again  I  perceive  the 
utter  uselessness  of  endeavor,  pulling  up  suddenly,  per- 
haps, to  find  myself  in  the  strangest  of  places. 

And  more  horribly  strange,  more  dismal  than  any,  is 
the  place  from  which  I  lately  returned.  As  a  maddened 
fool  I  felt  driven  thither;  as  a  maddened  fool  I  hurried 
back,  utterly  confounded. 

I  suppose  every  soul  here  is  forced  to  perform  that 
journey  once  at  least ;  and  in  so  far  it  might  not  unaptly 
be  called  a  pilgrimage,  but  to  a  frightful  shrine, 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  175 

Whether  it  is  on  account  of  a  certain  inexplicable  mania 
possessing  us  all  sooner  or  later,  or  merely  by  dint  of  a 
dread  attraction  exercised  by  that  awful  place,  I  know 
not ;  but  no  one  escapes  the  fate  of  going  thither  once, 
if  not  oftener.  You  know  what  a  crowd  is  drawn  by  a 
public  execution,  and  that  people  will  assist  at  so  dire  a 
spectacle  unless  positively  prohibited.  It  is  strange  ! 
But  what  should  you  say  if  any  one  by  morbid  attraction 
had  a  longing  to  watch  his  own  execution  ?  Something 
very  like  this  takes  place  here. 

You  are  aware  by  this  time,  and  must  be  so,  apart 
from  my  inadequate  account,  that  between  this  evil  place 
and  Paradise  a  great  gulf  is  fixed.  Great,  I  say,  and 
would  add  frightful,  but  that  words  invented  for  earth's 
need  are  altogether  unfit  to  describe  that  gulf.  It  is  the 
home  of  Satan.  Do  you  understand  that  ?  In  the  depth 
of  that  abyss  the  quenchless  fire  is  burning,  forever 
tended  by  the  devil  and  his  host.  How  far  away  is  it  ? 
I  cannot  tell ;  I  think  it  is  in  the  outmost  limit  of  hell. 
How  near  one  may  approach  it  ?  Even  at  a  distance  of 
hundreds  of  miles  one  feels  seized  with  giddiness  and  all 
the  horrors  of  death  ;  but  one  is  drawn  nevertheless. 
That  one  should  ever  escape  it  again  seems  marvelous. 
How  wide  the  gulf  is  ?  When  lit  up  by  the  radiance  of 
Paradise,  the  eye  at  a  leap  seems  to  carry  you  across,  but 
I  doubt  not  it  may  be  likened  to  a  shoreless  ocean. 

Light  now  is  fast  decreasing,  swallowed  up  by  the 
darkness  rising  afresh  from  the  abyss.  Do  you  expect 
me  to  describe  to  you  that  abode  of  terror  ?  But  I  can 
no  more  depict  it  than  I  was  able  to  give  a  true  repre- 
sentation of  Paradise.  It  is  beyond  human  possibilities, 
and  I  am  but  human,  even  in  hell.  Yet  one  thing  I  may 
tell  you  ;  believe  me,  that  more  than  one  rich  man  is  to 
be  found  by  the  awful  pit,  looking  across  to  where  they 
see  the  blessed  poor  in  Abraham's  bosom,  stretching 
forth  their  arms  too,  and  entreating  for  a  drop  of  water 
to  cool  their  tongue.  But  that  first  rich  man  of  the 
gospel  does  not  appear  to  be  among  them  ;  there  is  a 
rumor  that  perchance  he  was  saved. 

Alas  !  I  was  among  those  begging  rich,  supplicating 
with  all  my  soul,  but  no  one — no  one  heard  me.  Despair 
urged  me  to  fling  myself  into  the  awful  gulf,  that  per- 
chance I  might  lose  myself  amid  the  howling  fiends  of  the 


176  LETTERS    FROM     HELU 

bottomless  pit.  What  power  prevented  me,  and  event- 
ually brought  me  back  from  the  place,  1  know  not.  Is 
it  possible  that  God  in  His  mercy  is  yet  keeping  me  ? 

I  have  returned  then,  dreading  I  shall  be  carried 
thither  a  second  time.  I  must  tell  you  more,  though  it 
be  a  subject  of  horror  both  to  you  and  to  me  ;  but  then 
all  these  revelations  are  fraught  with  horror,  and  these 
letters  had  better  remain  unread  by  those  whose  self- 
complacent  tranquillity  of  mind  dislikes  being  harassed. 

As  I  returned  shivering  in  every  fibre,  and  conscious 
of  the  thought  only  of  Satan  and  his  angels,  I  all  but  fell 
into  the  arms  of  one  coming  towards  me  on  his  way  to 
the  gulf. 

But  was  it  a  human  being,  this  creature  with  mangled 
body  and  frightfully  disfigured  countenance  ?  A  man 
indeed,  his  very  appearance  bespeaking  his  name — Judas 
Iscariot. 

A  piece  of  rope  was  round  his  neck,  and  in  his  hand  *ie 
carried  thirty  pieces  of  silver.  The  rope  all  but  suffocates 
him,  and  the  money  burns  his  fingers;  he  keeps  throwing 
it  away,  but  it  always  returns  to  his  grasp.  I  have  heard 
that  it  may  be  absent  awhile  swelling  some  usurer's  gains; 
but  Judas  before  long  finds  it  in  his  closed  hand  again, 
bearing  the  marks  of  blood.  And  then  he  is  heard  to 
groan,  "  What  is  that  to  us  ?  see  thou  to  that !  " — a  fruit- 
less repentance,  which  is  not  repentance,  eating  away  at 
his  soul,  and  he  spends  himself  in  vain  efforts  to  get 
behind  some  one  and  seize  him  by  the  neck. 

What  he  intends  by  this  is  not  quite  clear;  but  people 
think  he  is  anxious  to  find  a  charitable  soul  who  will  give 
him  back  the  kiss  he  once  gave  to  his  Lord  and  Master, 
and  thereby  free  him  from  those  horrible  pieces  of  silver. 
But  the  soul  lives  not  in  hell  who  would  care  to  save  him 
at  the  cost  even  of  a  kiss  ;  he  is  an  object  of  repugnance 
to  everyone.  I  too  burst  away  from  him  horrified. 

I  came  across  a  scrap  of  newspaper  the  other  day,  and 
my  eye  was  caught  by  an  advertisement  offering  "  bridal 
bouquets  and  funeral  wreaths  in  great  variety."  And 
just  beneath  it  a  stationer  expressed  his  willingness  to 
sell  hand-painted  cards  for  the  menu  of  wedding  break- 
fasts and  "  In  Memoriam  "  of  the  dead.  Such  is  life,  I 
said;  side  by  side  grow  the  flowers  for  the  adorning  of 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  177 

brides  and  the  crowning  of  corpses.     Better  sometimes 
the  latter  than  the  former  ;   better  to  be  clasped  in  the 
'  embrace  of  death  than  find  love  dying  before  its  time. 

Memorial  cards  !  how  touching  and — how  cheap  ! 
How  we  love  to  speak  of  the  virtues  of  our  departed 
ones,  mourning  them  ostentatiously,  and  assuring  the 
world  we  shall  miss  them  forever.  Forever  ?  Look  into 
your  own  heart,  my  friend,  and  expect  not  to  be  remem- 
bered too  long  when  you  are  gone.  Love's  wreaths  will 
fade  on  your  grave,  and  the  night  winds  alone  will  keep 
up  their  moaning  around  it. 

What  is  this  buzzing  about  me  like  troublesome  flies — 
memories  ? 

I  once  had  taken  a  youth  into  my  service.  He  was  a 
kind  of  legacy  of  Aunt  Betty's,  and  for  her  sake  I 
intended  to  be  kind  to  him.  But  somehow  I  was  always 
finding  fault  with  him.  There  are  people  who  rouse  our 
evil  nature,  for  no  reason  one  can  see.  Poor  fellow  ! — 
perhaps  he  was  not  over  bright,  though  he  tried  his  best. 
But  patience  was  not  one  of  my  virtues.  I  scolded  him 
almost  continuously,  taking  a  kind  of  satisfaction  I 
believe  in  thus  revenging  myself  on  what  I  considered 
his  stupidity.  I  well  remember  the  many  hard  words  I 
flung  at  him,  provoked  from  bad  to  worse  by  his  meek 
sorrowful  countenance.  At  last  I  said  I  could  not  bear 
his  fool's  face  any  longer,  and  gave  him  warning.  I  did 
help  him  to  another  place,  where  I  fancy  he  was  more 
kindly  used  than  with  me.  But  it  was  a  disheartening 
beginning  for  one  who  had  to  make  his  way  in  service  ; 
and  he  had  deserved  better  at  my  hands.  When  he  had 
left  me  I  discovered  all  sorts  of  little  proofs  of  his  touch- 
ing fidelity  and  grateful  disposition.  How  badly  I  had 
rewarded  the  poor  fellow  for  such  golden  qualities  ! 

It  could  not  be  called  a  great  matter,  but  it  left 
a  sting. 

My  town  residence  had  the  rare  amenity  of  a  little 
garden  ;  it  was  shut  in  at  the  farther  end  by  a  blind  wall 
forming  the  back  of  a  humble  dwelling  in  the  rear.  But 
the  wall  was  not  quite  blind  ;  it  had  one  little  window 
not  far  from  the  ground — to  my  notion,  the  one  eye  of 
the  house  which  kept  looking  into  my  privacy.  I  had 
no  need  to  think  so,  for  behind  that  window  sat  a  poor 


178  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

seamstress  who  had  something  more  to  do  than  watch 
my  movements.  True,  she  would  now  and  then  look  up 
from  her  needle,  as  if  she  delighted  in  my  garden  ;  and 
she  even  dared  sometimes  to  put  her  head  out  of  window 
to  enjoy  the  fragrance  of  my  flowers.  There  could  be  no 
harm  in  that,  but  I  disliked  it.  And  availing  myself  of 
the  letter  of  the  law,  ran  up  a  paling  a  few  feet  from  the 
wall. 

The  right  of  doing  so  was  mine,  but  it  was  very  wrong. 
The  poor  creature  had  delighted  in  my  garden,  the 
proximity  of  which  had  helped  her  through  many  a  joy- 
less day.  She  loved  flowers,  and  the  sight  of  green 
things  was  grateful  to  her  hard-worked  eyes.  There 
were  a  few  thrushes  in  the  garden,  and  she  was  cheered 
by  their  song.  My  fence  was  simply  cruel,  depriving 
her  not  only  of  these  enjoyments,  but  of  fresh  air  as 
well,  and  of  the  light  she  sorely  needed — I  had  shut  her 
out  from  her  share  of  the  sky. 

I  had  acted  heedlessly,  and  I  came  to  see  it  before 
long ;  good-nature  even  was  sthred,  and  I  actually 
resolved  to  make  amends.  I  went  round  to  the  back 
street,  but  was  too  late  ;  the  poor  girl  had  been  obliged 
to  leave  her  little  room,  over  which  the  struggles  of  ten 
lonely  years  had  thrown  a  halo  of  home. 

Neither  was  this  a  great  matter ;  but  little  things 
make  up  the  sum  of  good  or  evil  in  life.  I  feel  sore  at 
heart. 

I  had  gone  out  riding  one  day ;  it  was  in  the 
country,  and  I  intended  to  look  up  a  farmer  in  a  small 
village,  but  did  not  know  his  house  from  the  surround- 
ing homesteads.  The  place  seemed  asleep  in  the  noon- 
day sun,  not  a  youth  within  hail  to  whom  I  might  have 
thrown  the  bridle.  Looking  about,  I  saw  an  open  cottage 
door  and  the  figure  of  a  young  girl  appearing  on  the 
threshold  ;  I  called  her  and  she  promised  to  mind  the 
animal,  seeming  half  shy,  half  ready  to  please  me. 

I  went  on  my  business,  and,  returning,  came  upon  an 
interesting  spectacle.  The  mare  had  become  unman- 
ageable ;  the  young  girl  could  hardly  hold  her,  feeling 
evidently  distressed  by  the  creature's  pranks.  Her 
efforts  to  subdue  its  gambols  served  as  an  admirable  foil 
to  her  figure  ;  her  every  movement  was  charming,  and 
her  pretty  face  reflected  so  delightfully  both  fear  and 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  179 

vexation,  that  instead  of  hastening  to  her  assistance,  I 
stood  still  behind  a  shrub  watching  complacently  what 
1  considered  an  exquisite  scene. 

There  was  no  danger  involved.  The  mare  was  not 
vicious — only  frolicsome  ;  but  the  rustic  beauty  did  not 
undertand  that,  and  was  evidently  frightened,  holding 
fast  by  the  bridle,  jumping  now  right,  now  left,  her  lithe 
figure  following  the  capering  animal.  It  was  merely  to 
ingratiate  herself  with  the  damsel  that  the  mare  tossed 
its  head,  plunging  again  as  if  to  snap  at  her  kerchief, 
which  now  slipped  from  her  shoulders  revealing  the 
whitest  of  necks.  And  behold,  the  masses  of  golden 
hair  escaped  their  confinement  falling  in  a  shower  of 
ringlets  as  though  to  veil  her  charms.  Her  distress 
increased  visibly,  a  deep  glow  mantling  her  features,  her 
bosom  heaving.  Now  on  tiptoe,  now  curving  her  out- 
stretched arms,  bending  this  way,  bending  that,  she 
delighted  me  with  her  graceful  movements. 

But  there  was  a  sudden  end  to  my  enjoyment.  She 
caught  sight  of  me,  and  I  was,  obliged  to  approach. 
Had  she  let  go  the  mare,  it  would  have  been  no  more 
than  I  deserved  ;  but  she  held  on  faithfully  till  I  was 
near  enough  to  take  hold  of  the  bridle  myself.  There 
she  stood  burning  with  shame  and  anger,  her  eyes 
brimming  with  tears.  Before  I  mounted  I  endeavored 
to  slip  half-a-crown  into  her  hand  ;  but  she  turned  from 
me  proudly,  the  coin  rolling  at  my  feet. 

Surely  no  great  matter,  I  had  wronged  the  girl,  by 
being  unkind  to  her,  while  reveling  in  the  sight  of  her 
beauty  ;  but  she  came  to  no  harm.  On  the  contrary,  I 
have  a  sort  of  conviction  that  the  little  adventure  proved 
a  useful  lesson,  teaching  her  to  beware  of  admiring 
fops. 

Nevertheless,  memories  will  not  be  silenced.  Justice 
is  the  law  of  life,  be  it  in  the  world,  or  in  heaven,  or  in 
hell ;  arid  every  act  of  man,  though  it  contain  but  a 
shadow  of  wrong,  calls  for  atonement,  unless  God  Him- 
self in  His  mercy  will  blot  it  out. 

I  know  it  now — I  know  it — who  shall  free  me  from 
even  such  guilt  ? 

Do  you  see  that  tree  ?  Often  and  often  I  sink  down 
beneath  it  with  groans  of  regret,  for  on  its  branches  are 
gathered  the  opportunities  of  a  wasted  life.  They  keep 


I  So  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

falling  down  on  me,  ready  to  crush  me.  I  am  often 
driven  thither  by  the  lashes  of  the  awful  Inevitable. 
How  happy  I  might  have  been,  how  much  I  might  have 
done  in  the  days  of  golden  possibility. 

But  I  would  not !  As  a  blind  man  I  walked  in  life, 
careless  of  light.  It  is  dark  now,  but  I  can  see—  I  do 
see — the  failure  of  my  days. 


LETTER     XXIII. 

IF  memory  takes  me  to  the  Holy  Land  now,  I  seem 
to  roam  through  its  length  and  breadth  as  a  broken- 
hearted pilgrim  questioning  every  spot  for  the  Saviour  of 
men,  but  unable  to  find  Him,  with  whom  there  is  for- 
giveness of  sin.  In  the  blessed  days  I  spent  there 
actually,  peace  was  offered  me  daily,  hourly  ;  but  I  was 
too  much  engrossed  with  my  own  vain  thoughts  to  be 
anxious  for  the  unspeakable  gift.  An  angel  of  God 
walked  beside  me,  whose  influence  over  me  was  marvel- 
ous. Lily's  faith  and  piety  were  as  sunbeams  to  my 
heart ;  I  felt  the  vivifying  touches,  and  more  than  once 
was  near  yielding  up  my  sinful  being,  my  life  and  all,  for 
so  precious  a  Saviour — her  Saviour — who  was  ready  to 
be  mine  ;  but  at  the  decisive  moment  self-love,  writhing 
in  agony,  shot  up  within  me  as  a  flame  of  hell,  blinding 
the  eyes.  I  saw  not  Him,  but  only  a  fair  girl  by  my 
side — the  aim  of  my  earthly  hopes  and  all  but  mine 
already,  who,  alas,  should  soon  cost  me  the  hardest  of 
all  conflicts,  even  a  wrestling  with  death. 

O  Galilee,  thou  land  of  beauty !  How  fine  is  the  con- 
trast between  Judaea,  dark,  wild,  and  waste,  and  thine 
own  fair,  genial  tracts.  And  of  all  places  none  more 
sublime  than  Mount  Tabor.  In  glorious  solitude  it  rises 
from  the  broad  expanse,  lifting  a.  precipitous  front  north, 
south,  east,  and  west.  Clothed  to  the  top  with  woods 
and  shrubberies,  its  evergreen  oaks  and  pines  seem  to 
vie  in  beauty.  And  the  place  is  rich  in  aromatic  plants. 
Never  anywhere  have  I  met  such  freshness — such  exu- 
berance of  nature.  From  the  south  only  the  mount  is 
accessible,  a  path  winding  to  the  very  summit,  revealing 
fresh  charms  of  landscape  at  every  turn  ;  and  rising 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  l8l 

from  the  sunburnt  plain,  you  enter  regions  of  air  more 
pure  and  balmy  than  you  ever  dreamt  of.  The  way  is 
longer  than  you  expected,  but  repays  you  amply ;  and 
as  you  reach  the  summit  behold  a  tableland  of  some 
three  miles  in  circumference,  an  expanse  of  richest 
greensward  and  splendid  groups  of  trees.  You  enter 
this  retreat  of  beauty  by  a  ruined  gate  in  the  west. 
Remains  of  enclosures  and  turrets,  of  grottoes  and 
cisterns,  meet  the  eye  at  every  turn — memorials  of  a 
mysterious  past  which  tell  of  an  encampment  or  even  a 
city  that  may  have  stood  here.  But  now  peace  has  her 
dwelling  there,  if  anywhere  in  the  world,  with  a  sense  of 
security  and  calm.  No  wonder  that  Peter  exclaimed  : 
"  Lord,  it  is  good  for  us  to  be  here  :  if  Thou  wilt,  let  us 
make  three  tabernacles  ;  one  for  Thee,  and  one  for 
Moses,  and  one  for  Elias." 

We  had  begun  the  ascent  towards  evening,  and  though 
it  was  but  March  the  day  had  been  oppressively  hot  ;  it 
was  like  a  deep  draught  of  refreshment,  therefore,  to 
reach  the  cool  balmy  height.  We  felt  as  though 
admitted  into  Paradise.  Just  before  sunset  we  gained 
the  top  ;  and  finding  ourselves  unexpectedly  upon  that 
glorious  tableland,  commanding  so  boundless  a  view,  a 
deep  silence  fell  upon  us — the  whole  of  Galilee,  nay,  the 
greater  part  of  the  Holy  Land,  at  our  feet  ! 

I  looked  towards  Lily,  for  it  was  through  her  that  the 
best  of  impressions  at  all  times  reached  me.  The  set- 
ting sun  was  weaving  a  halo  about  her,  casting  a  roseate 
glow  on  her  beauty,  which  more  than  ever  looked  as 
though  it  were  not  of  earth.  I  had  often  felt  this,  but 
never  so  fully  before.  And  the  glory  of  earth  and  sky 
about  us  seemed  as  nothing,  compared  to  the  uplifting 
radiance  that  spoke  to  me  from  Lily's  face.  She  stood 
wrapt  in  worshiping  delight. 

Bear  with  me,  my  friend,  if  I  seem  lengthy,  carrying 
thee  back  again  and  again  to  scenes  dead  and  gone.  It 
may  seem  foolish  in  a  poor  lost  one  like  me,  but  even 
that  is  not  of  my  choice !  I  am  forever  driven  back 
upon  my  own  past,  and  what  was  happiness  then  is  mis- 
ery now — ay,  hopeless  despair. 

Towards  the  north  we  looked  away  over  the  hills  of 
Galilee  to  the  snowy  peaks  of  Lebanon  and  the  regions 
of  Damascus.  Nestling  at  our  feet  were  the  little  towns 


182  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

of  Galilee,  Cana,  Nazareth,  and  Nain,  with  their  holy 
memories.  Westward  lay  the  plain  of  Esdraelon, 
steeped  in  charm,  with  Carmel  beyond,  and  the  sea  suf- 
fused with  the  light  of  the  setting  sun.  Brook  Kison, 
winding  through  the  valley  like  a  ribbon  of  sheen,  guides 
the  eye  to  the  headland  overhanging  the  Mediterranean. 
Turning  to  the  east  your  gaze  is  captured  by  the  beauty 
of  Lake  Gennesareth,  with  the  small  town  of  Tiberias, 
now  in  ruins.  Not  far  off  is  Capernaum,  and  beyond 
the  lake  the  desert  where  Christ  fed  the  multitude.  To 
the  south  are  Mount  Hermon  and  the  hills  of  Samaria. 
Farther  still,  beyond  Jericho,  the  lonely  height  where 
the  Son  of  God  fasted  and  was  tempted  by  Satan.  Your 
eye  wanders  away  over  Jordan  to  Bethabara,  where  John 
baptized  ;  over  the  Red  Sea  to  Mount  Nebo,  in  the  land 
of  the  Moabites,  where  Moses  died  ;  and  in  the  distant 
haze  you  descry  the  boundless  desert  of  Arabia. 

The  sun  was  sinking — nay,  it  fell  into  the  sea,  glow- 
ing like  a  ball  of  flame,  and  sudden  darkness  overspread 
the  land.  But  our  people  had  been  busy,  a  tent  \vas 
ready  to  receive  my  mother  and  Lily,  for  we  intended  to 
spend  the  night  on  Tabor.  Our  mules  enjoyed  their 
liberty  and  the  succulent  grass.  A  fire  had  been  lit  with 
odoriferous  branches  of  cedar,  and  a  simple  supper  was 
being  prepared.  Every  hand  was  busy,  excepting  the 
Turks,  our  escort,  who  looked  on,  lazily  contemplative, 
enjoying  their  evening  hookah.  Those  sunset  scenes 
making  ready  for  the  night,  how  soothing  they  had 
always  been  to  my  restless  soul !  But  that  evening  on 
the  Mount  in  Galilee  was  one  of  the  last  restful  evenings 
I  knew  on  earth. 

When  darkness  had  set  in  we  lit  more  fires  and  placed 
the  necessary  outposts,  for  nowhere  in  the  Holy  Land  is 
one  safe  from  an  attack  of  Bedouins.  But  it  was  easy 
to  secure  our  position  here  ;  the  place  was  a  fortress  in 
itself. 

Having  retired  within  the  tent,  we  passed  an  hour  by 
the  subdued  glow  of  a  lamp,  Lily  presently  taking  her 
Bible  and  reading  to  us  the  story  of  the  Transfiguration. 
Her  voice  to  me  was  ever  as  "  a  cool  hand  laid  on  an 
aching  brow,"  sufficient  in  itself  to  attune  my  soul  to 
worship.  I  listened,  anxious  to  listen.  Yet  it  was  but 
as  a  transient  breath  of  even  in  a  sultry  atmosphere  ;  my 


LETTERS   FROM   HELL.  183 

spirit  soon  would  flag,  fluttering  helplessly,  and  unable 
to  rise. 

"  Do  you  feel  comfortable,  Lily  ? "  said  I,  on  wishing 
her  good-night. 

"  O  yes,"  she  replied,  with  one  of  her  happy  smiles ; 
"  I  should  like  to  live  and  die  here." 

I  knew  from  her  manner,  and  her  eyes  told  me,  that 
she  had  more  to  say.  I  bent  my  ear,  and  she  whispered  : 

"  Do  not  forget  to  say  your  prayers,  Philip,  on  lying 
down  to-night !  Remember  that  our  Lord  prayed  here 
for  you  also  !  " 

A  breath  of  life  to  touch  me — my  soul  raised  her 
wings.  I  went  out  deeply  moved. 

My  couch  was  prepared  just  outside  the  tent.  I  laid 
myself  down  wrapped  in  a  burnous  ;  but  not  to  dispose 
myself  to  sleep  at  once.  I  must  say  my  prayers.  A 
prayer  from  the  heart  I  think  I  had  not  known  since  the 
days  of  my  childhood.  Of  late  I  had  been  trying,  but 
always  felt  that  something  was  wanting — alas,  not  merely 
something,  but  the  thing  that  constitutes  prayer — uplift- 
ing the  heart  toward  God.  I  really  endeavored  to 
collect  my  thoughts,  but  hither  and  thither  they  roamed 
against  my  will.  It  seemed  vain  for  me  to  fold  my  hands, 
to  move  my  lips — the  spirit  of  prayer  was  absent.  And 
yet  I  could  not  think  of  sleeping  without  first  having 
prayed  !  Stillness  seemed  to  have  settled  within  the  tent ; 
but  I,  outside,  could  not  rest  rne  and  be  still.  I  looked 
up,  wakeful,  toward  the  starry  sky.  It  seemed  so  near  ; 
but  there  was  no  peace  in  that  feeling.  It  oppressed  me 
— the  enclosing  firmament  was  like  a  prison.  The  voices 
of  night  began  to  work  on  my  fancy,  and  restlessness 
fevered  my  blood.  There  were  sounds  all  about  me — 
wild  boars  breaking  through  the  brushwood,  and  jackals 
howling  in  the  plain  ;  the  call  of  a  night-bird  in  the  trees 
mingled  with  the  strange  gruntings  of  the  sleeping  Turks, 
who  in  dreamful  unease  added  their  share  to  the  concert 
of  discord  that  filled  my  ear. 

It  was  midnight.  My  repeater  announced  it  as  clearly 
as  a  church  bell,*I  thought.  I  tossed  impatiently,  gazing 
into  the  dying  embers.  There  was  something  quieting 
in  the  sinking  glow — it  held  me  still.  And  presently  I 
thought  I  heard  Lily's  voice,  reading  how  the  Saviour 
was  transfigured  on  the  Mount.  Yea,  and  I  saw  Him 


184  LKTTERS    FROM     Hill. 

standing  between  Moses  and  Elias  in  heavenly  glory. 
Upon  that  vision  I  closed  my  eyes.  And  behold  my  soul 
had  been  praying  !  The  spirit,  freed  for  a  moment  from 
the  trammels  of  the  flesh,  had  risen  to  him.  I  could 
sleep  now,  and  slept  quietly  till  dawn. 

The  glow  was  deepening  on  the  heights  of  Ashtaroth, 
beyond  the  sea  of  Galilee,  as  I  approached  the  northern 
slope.  I  was  standing  by  a  choked-up  cistern,  awaiting 
the  yet  veiled  glory  with  eyes  riveted  on  the  eastern  sky 
when  a  light  figure  came  up  behind  me.  It  was  Lily, 
quietly  putting  her  arm  within  mine.  We  spoke  not,  but 
together  we  gazed  toward  the  far  shore  of  morning  that' 
overflowed  with  light.  How  sacred  was  its  calm  ! 

But  now  the  sun  appeared,  a  wellspring  of  splendor, 
flashing  from  height  to  height,  «nd  setting  a  halo  on 
Carmel :  for  the  west  lay  steeped  in  wonder,  and  the  sea 
caught  every  sparkling  beam. 

"Oh,  Philip,  surely  this  is  the  beauty  of  holiness," 
whispered  Lily  ;  "  let  us  praise  the  Lord  !  "  I  had  no 
words,  but  wrapped  my  burnous  about  her,  for  a  cold 
wind  swept  the  Mount. 

The  valleys  lay  yet  hidden  in  mist  and  darkness,  but 
there  seemed  a  fluttering  movement  in  the  cloudy  cov- 
erlet— a  sudden  rent,  and  through  it  appeared  a  shining 
cupola  and  the  white  glittering  walls  of  a  little  town, 
like  a  revelation  from  another  world. 

"  Nazareth  ! "  cried  Lily,  in  happy  surprise.  "  O 
Philip,  look  !  we  have  it  all  here  ;  sweet  gracious  Nazareth 
and  holy  Tabor.  He  humbled  Himself,  yet  was  the 
beloved  Son,  in  whom  the  Father  was  well  pleased." 

She  only  said  He  as  the  thought  of  Him  moved  in 
her  heart,  filling  her  soul.  I  had  no  need  to  ask  her 
meaning.  How  wide  were  her  sympathies,  how  keen 
her  perception  of  beauty,  but  her  deepest  life  owned  Him 
Lord,  and  Him  alone. 

The  sun  having  fully  risen,  we  walked  back  to  the 
tent. 

"  It  is  here  He  was  transfigured,"  said  Lily,  presently, 
stopping  short  and  looking  about  her  with  reverential 
awe;  "but  not  yet  had  He  accomplished  what  He  had 
come  to  do — the  will  of  His  Father,  to  the  death,  even  on 
the  Cross.  Not  yet  had  He  drunk  the  bitter  cup — 
Gethsemane,  Gabbatha,  Golgotha !  But  here  for  a 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  185 

moment  He  was  uplifted  into  the  glory  that  awaited  Him 
at  the  right  hand  of  God  ;  and  thus  strengthened  He 
went  forth  to  the  humiliation  and  suffering  that  lay 
before  Him.  Philip,"  she  added,  "is  not  this  a  holy 
example  for  all  God's  children?  We,  too,  have  a  path 
of  sorrow  to  tread,  many  a  trial  to  go  through  ;  but  we, 
too,  may  have  a  foretaste  of  the  joy  to  come,  the  perfect 
liberty  promised,  and  it  may  help  us  to  reach  the  end. 
Without  this  grace  divine  many  a  burdened  soul  might 
fail  on  the  road,  for  life  seems  hard  at  times.  We  have 
been  strengthened  by  a  vision  on  this  mount ;  .  .  . 
my  heart  is  very  full.  My  spirit  rejoices  ;  ...  let 
me  join  in  the  new  song  to  the  glory  of  the  Lamb  !  " 

Was  that  Lily  ?  Yet  it  was  not  for  the  first  time  she 
had  spoken  out  the  fullness  that  moved  her.  Every  day 
of  late  had  made  her  more  fit  for  heaven  ;  even  I  saw 
it.  But  I  trembled  at  the  inward  beauty  she  unfolded, 
which  seemed  one  with  her  ardent  desire  to  go  behind 
the  veil. 

"  I  cannot  help  telling  you,  dear,"  she  continued, 
clinging  to  me  for  support.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  could  not 
breathe  again  down  there  in  the  everyday  world.  It  is 
a  happy  feeling,  yet  fraught  with  pain.  I  do  not  say  I 
would  give  the  rest  of  my  life,  but  I  would  give  much 
for  a  few  quiet  days  up  here  !  " 

"  Would  it  really  make  you  happy,  Lily  ? "  said  I, 
sadly. 

"  Oh  yes,  Philip,  and  well  too !  I  seem  to  breathe 
easier,  and  my  heart  is  free." 

"  Well,  then,  ask  mother  about  it.  I  am  satisfied  with 
whatever  pleases  you,  sweetest  Lily.' 

The  mountain  seemed  astir  now,  and  the  encampment 
full  of  life.  Our  people  were  wide  awake,  Turks  and 
all;  some  making  coffee,  others  baking  cakes  of  wheat  or 
maize  on  heated  stones;  others  again  tending  the  animals 
or  polishing  their  arms.  The  Turks  looked  on  compla- 
cently. Having  accomplished  their  matutinal  devotions, 
they  lighted  their  pipes  and  allowed  others  to  do  the 
work.  But  there  was  life  too  beyond  the  camp — herds 
of  goats  browsing  far  and  near.  A  cool  wind  played 
about  the  tree  tops,  and  the  flowers  looked  more  gay  in 
the  light  of  morning. 

My  mother  raised  no  objection  to  Lily's  desire  ;  she 


1 86  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

had  been  strangely  ready  of  late  to  humor  her,  from  a 
feeling  perhaps  that  we  should  not  have  her  much  longer. 

So  we  remained,  and  we  all  liked  it.  It  was,  to  tell 
the  truth,  a  charming  mode  of  spending  a  few  days — 
camping  gipsy  fashion  on  so  lovely  a  spot,  high  above 
the  work-a-day  world,  with  a  view  over  all  the  land — the 
Holy  Land — in  the  purest  of  atmospheres,  amid  scenes 
of  nature,  rich,  balmy,  and  fragrant  as  Eden  itself,  and 
in  absolute  calm.  It  was  a  time  of  blessing,  truly.  And 
Lily  revived;  there  was  no  troubled  beating  of  the  heart, 
no  sudden  throbbing  of  the  pulse — I  knew,  for  often 
would  I  hold  the  dear  little  hand  quietly  nestling  within 
mine — no  tell-tale  flushes  dying  away  in  pallor.  Her 
face  wore  a  delicate  bloom.  I  almost  believed  in  the 
wonder-working  power  of  the  sacred  Mount.  I  was 
myself  again,  casting  fears  to  the  wind,  and  adding  my 
share  to  the  happiness  of  the  moment. 

In  the  course  of  the  forenoon  pilgrims  of  every  hue 
and  nation  arrived,  with  cripples  and  sufferers  in  the 
rear.  Fortunately,  our  encampment  was  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  actual  sanctuary,  which  saved  us  from 
being  overrun.  It  was  a  sad  and  almost  sickening  sight ; 
but  Lily  did  not  think  so.  On  the  contrary,  she  was  all 
sympathy,  yearning  to  help  where  she  could.  To  the 
poor  she  offered  money,  to  the  sick  medicine,  the  com- 
fort of  a  helpful  word  to  all.  Love  trembled  in  her 
eyes,  gathering  sweetly  at  her  lashes.  How  beautiful  she 
was,  her  dress  half  eastern  and  altogether  charming  ; 
how  lovely  she  looked,  gliding  about  from  one  miserable 
pilgrim  to  another  ;  and  they  all  understood  her,  know- 
ing never  a  word  of  her  language  ! 

Towards  evening  I  received  a  visit  from  the  chief  who 
had  undertaken  to  be  responsible  for  our  safety  from 
Nazareth  to  Samaria.  He  had  been  hunting  on  the 
Mount,  and  was  now  coming  with  a  splendid  retinue  to 
pay  his  respects  to  me,  and  present  me  with  a  wild  boar 
he  had  killed.  Of  course  I  had  to  return  the  compli- 
ment, and  indeed  his  attention  to  me  was  worthy  of  an 
acknowledgment.  True,  he  robbed  me  of  the  precious 
evening  I  had  intended  to  spend  alone  with  my  mother 
and  Lily,  instead  of  which  I  now  was  obliged  to  play  the 
amiable  host,  presiding  at  an  extemporized  feast.  I  did 
my  best — in  conversation  too,  which,  helped  on  by  a 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  157 

dragoman,  was  a  pattern  of  flowery  speeches.  One  com- 
fort was  left — Lily  watched  us  from  the  distance,  and 
seemed  intensely  amused.  The  Emir  on  quitting 
expressed  himself  highly  sensible  of  my  attempts  to  do 
him  honor  ;  and  with  thankworthy  politeness  he  pitched 
his  camp  half-way  down  the  Mount,  leaving  the  upper 
domain  to  ourselves. 

But  enough  !  It  is  no  healthy  craving  that  urges  me 
to  enlarge  upon  this  sort  of  thing  amid  the  horrors  of 
hell.  You  may  turn  for  the  rest  of  it  to  Chateaubriand 
or  Lamartine  if  you  like.  Fool — fool  that  I  am,  even  in 
the  realms  of  death  ! 


LETTER    XXIV. 

ADVENTURES  of  all  kind  are  of  daily  occurrence  here, 
but  they  are  void  of  interest.  Like  everything  else  in 
hell  they  mock  us  with  emptiness — mere  shadows  of 
things  left  behind. 

Not  long  ago,  at  a  lonesome  spot,  a  young  woman  flung 
herself  into  my  arms,  not  for  love  of  me,  but  for  horror 
of  another.  She  was  being  pursued,  and  a  sensation  of 
fear,  natural  to  her  sex,  startled  her  into  a  show  of  weak- 
ness. It  was  foolish  in  her  ;  she  might  have  known  that 
she  could  not  really  be  harmed,  and  that  whatever  cause 
of  fear  there  might  be,  I  had  no  power  to  help  her. 
But  such  things  will  happen  here  ;  we  live  in  the  notions 
brought  hither  from  the  world,  no  matter  how  clearly  we 
see  them  to  be  meaningless.  It  was  quite  conceivable, 
then,  that  the  tender  creature  I  held  in  my  arms  should 
have  been  sufficiently  distressed  to  seek  the  protection  of 
my  manhood. 

I  gave  her  time  to  recover  herself,  and  then  inquired 
into  the  nature  of  her  alarm.  She  lifted  a  pair  of  eyes  to 
me,  tenderly  trustful,  like  a  turtle  dove's,  but  trembling 
afresh,  as  if  the  very  question  were  too  much  for  her  shy 
and  gentle  disposition.  However,  she  found  courage  to 
reply  : 

"  He  is  always  after  me.  I  do  not  know  his  name — he 
is  seeking  for  Beatrice.  He  fancies  I  am  she." 

J  knew  at  once  whom  she  meant.     That  man  is  one  of 


1 88  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

the  public  characters  in  hell,  if  I  may  say  so.  It  is  an 
ill-chosen  expression,  but  descriptive  terms  acquired  in 
the  world  are  apt  to  be  inadequate  here.  In  hell %11  are 
public,  yet  none  is  so  in  the  sense  you  would  attach  to 
that  word.  What  I  mean  to  convey  is  simply  this,  that 
the  man  she  spoke  of  is  known  throughout  the  regions  of 
hell,  pointed  at  by  young  and  old  ;  and  that  wherever  he 
goes  he  is  mocked  with  his  own  constant  cry  :  "  Where  is 
Beatrice  ?  Can  any  one  tell  me  where  to  find  her  ? " 
This  question  is  for  ever  in  his  mouth.  Beatrice  seems 
his  one  thought,  and  the  getting  hold  of  her  his  mania. 
He  is  convinced  she  must  be  in  hell ;  "for,"  says  he — but 
let  me  cast  a  veil  over  the  poor  girl's  history.  Enough 
that  he  seeks  her  with  such  brutish  eagerness  as  I  have 
not  known  even  in  this  place.  But  he  looks  for  her  in 
vain.  Were  it  possible  for  him  to  find  her,  even  hell 
would  shudder  at  the  probable  deed.  He  is  one  of  the 
most  repulsive  beings  I  have  met,  and  that,  surely,  means 
a  good  deal  here.  He  must  be  vice  personified,  all  human 
feelings  burnt  out  of  him  ;  nothing  remaining  but  the  one 
wild  inhuman  passion  that  has  possessed  him.  *  And  then 
the  horrible  wounds  disfiguring  his  body,  his  life-blood 
forever  gushing  through  every  one  of  them  !  He  is  a 
refuse  of  the  vilest  in  hell.  No  wonder  that  the  poor 
shame-faced  creature  was  filled  with  horror  at  the  sight 
of  him. 

"  Then  you  are  not  Beatrice  ?"  I  said. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  with  the  meekest  of  looks.  "  I  am 
Emily." 

Our  acquaintance  did  not  proceed  farther  on  that 
occasion ;  but  I  somehow  felt  sure  I  should  meet  her 
again. 

Having  left  her  for  the  present,  I  could  not  but  occupy 
my  mind  with  her.  How  was  it  possible,  I  thought,  that 
such  a  creature  as  this  Emily  should  have  come  to  hell  ? 
She  seemed  an  image  of  fairest  womanhood.  True, 
beauty  alone  is  no  safeguard  ;  on  the  contrary,  some  of 
the  most  favored  in  this  respect  would  seem  to  be  here. 
But  her  utter  gentleness  and  simple-hearted  sweetness — 
her  modest  bearing — must  be  genuine,  I  thought.  A  veil 
of  purity  seemed  to  be  cast  about  her,  despising  dissimu- 
lation. There  was  a  grace  not  only  in  her  face  and 
figure,  but  in  her  every  movement,  that  might  well  claim 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  189 

to  be  the  garment  of  an  innocent  soul.  And  then,  so 
young — a  very  child  to  the  world,  surely.  She  might  be 
nineteen,  but  one  would  hardly  credit  even  that.  I  saw 
she  had  been  married,  for  she  wore  a  ring  ;  but  she 
looked  hardly  growi;  up.  Now,  the  true  simplicity  of 
innocence  is  admired  by  the  most  worldly  even — how 
justly  so  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that  it  does  not 
exist  here.  It  is  rare  on  earth  ;  but  some  women  seem 
to  preserve  the  heart  of  childhood  in  spite  of  the  prompt- 
ings of  the  flesh  and  the  devil.  Family,  to  all  appearance, 
seemed  to  be  one  of  these  chosen  few.  As  a  grown  child 
she  looked  whose  feet  could  never  have  been  soiled  with 
the  mire  of  the  world.  How,  then,  did  she  come  to  wake 
in  hell  ?  Involuntarily  I  thought  of  the  awful  truth  that 
the  heart  is  unclean  by  nature,  no  matter  what  graces  may 
twine  about  it,  and  though  its  lot  be  cast  in  the  fairest  of 
paths. 

I  met  her  again  before  long,  and,  unnoticed  by  her, 
watched  her  at  leisure.  She  sat  apart,  deeply  engrossed 
and  offering  a  sight  both  attractive  and  singular.  Her 
attire  was  of  cloister-like  simplicity,  utterly  white,  the 
ample  folds  enveloping  her  slender  form, — purely  white 
from  top  to  toe,  without  a  shadow  of  coloring,  and 
contrasting  strangely  with  the  surrounding  darkness. 
One  thing  only  seemed  wanting  to  crown  the  indescrib- 
able gracefulness  of  her  appearance  with  the  perfection 
of  beauty — peace — which,  of  course,  she  had  not.  Her 
delicately  shaped  hands  moved  busily  in  her  lap.  I 
discovered,  after  a  while,  that  a  precious  necklace 
occupied  her  attention,  the  pearls  of  which  she  kept 
counting,  now  beginning  at  one  end,  now  at  the  other, 
but  always  stopping  at  the  centre,  and  dropping  it  again 
to  wring  her  hands.  I  fancied  I  saw  tears  in  her  eyes  ; 
but  that  of  course  was  not  so. 

I  moved  up  to  her  presently. 

"  Are  you  la  dame  blanche  ?  "  I  said. 

It  was  a  stupid  question,  since  there  are  so  many 
ladies  owning  this  title. 

But  she  only  shook  her  head,  saying  :  "  No,  I  am 
Emily  Fleming." 

"  Fleming  and  Sparkman  ? "  I  ejaculated,  surprised, 
naming  a  highly  respected  firm. 

She  nodded,  heaving  a  deep  sigh.     What  could  she 


190  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

mean  ?  Was  she  some  member  of  a  well-known 
family  ? 

But  she,  meanwhile,  had  replaced  the  pearls  on  her 
neck,  sitting  motionless  with  folded  hands.  I  hasten  to 
add  that  no  one  ever  succeeds  here  in  folding  hands 
aright — that  also  is  of  the  past.  She  appeared  lost  in 
sorrowful  thought. 

"  Poor  child  ! "  I  cried,  "you  seem  very  unhappy." 

"  Yes — yes,  I  am,"  she  sobbed.  "  I  have  sustained  a 
loss  which  I  can  never  make  good." 

"  What  is  it  you  have  lost,  poor  Emily  ? " 

"  A  pearl — a  pearl,"  she  murmured,  wringing  her  white 
little  hands. 

"  A  pearl  ! "  I  echoed — a  slight  thing,  surely,  to  be 
cast  into  hell  for.  And  yet  there  are  goodly  pearls  ! 
Was  not  there  a  man  who  sold  all  he  had  that  he  might 
buy  one  pearl  of  great  price  ? 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  may  find  it  again,"  I  said,  anxious 
to  be  kind  ;  but  it  was  foolish. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  she  said,  brightening.  "But, 
alas  !  I  have  sought  for  it  for  years  and  years." 

The  memory  of  a  promise  seemed  hovering  about  me, 
that  those  who  seek  shall  find  ;  but  I  could  not  shape 
the  words,  and  only  said  vaguely  : 

"  If  you  have  sought  so  long  already  you  may  be  all 
the  nearer  the  finding." 

It  was  the  vainest  of  speeches,  but  it  broke  down  the 
reserve  about  her  heart.  She  seemed  to  trust  me,  and 
before  long  she  told  me  the  history  of  her  life.  It  cost 
her  a  real  effort  to  do  so — I  saw  that  well  enough  ;  but 
the  longing  to  unburden  oneself  is  irresistible  with  us. 
And,  moreover,  the  veil  of  secrecy  is  always  being  lifted 
here  from  every  soul. 

"  You  seem  to  be  acquainted  with  the  house  of  Flem- 
ing and  Sparkman,"  she  began  ;  "  perhaps  the  present 
heads  of  the  firm  were  known  to  you.  But  my  history 
takes  me  back — ah,  let  me  see — for  seven  generations. 
How  long  it  seems  ! 

"  As  a  light-hearted  girl  of  sixteen  I  became  the  bride 
of  Robert  Fleming,  and  he  brought  me,  a  happy  young 
wife,  to  the  old  family  house.  On  the  day  we  were 
married  he  gave  me  a  precious  necklace,  worth  a  man's 
ransom,  as  the  saying  is.  And  before  fastening  it  on 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  19 1 

my  neck  he  spoke  to  me  about  -every  pearl  in  particular, 
adding  a  meaning  to  their  value,  which  comes  back  to 
me  now  with  terrible  force.  '  The  large  blue  pearl  in 
the  centre — a  gem  rather,'  he  said  —  l  signifies  your 
wedding  troth  ;  the  deep  red  one  your  true  love  ;  and 
that  white  one  your  innocence.  The  lesser  pearls  on 
both  sides  make  up  the  number  of  wifely  virtues — each 
pearl  for  a  grace — and  there  are  many  you  see.  And 
that  which  holds  them  together,  making  them  your  own 
precious  adornment,  is  chastity  and  womanly  honor.' 

"  With  his  own  hand  he  fastened  the  costly  gift  on  my 
neck.  His  words  had  impressed  me  but  slightly  ;  I  was 
young  and  delighted  in  the  splendid  ornament.  But, 
alas  !  the  time  came  when  I  could  but  remember  them  in 
tears.  .  .  .  Look  at  my  necklace  !  The  pearls  are  all 
there,  but  the  central  gem  is  missing.  And  the  loss  of 
that  pearl  has  ruined  me. 

"  Did  I  love  my  husband  ?  I  do  not  know  what  to  say 
honestly.  Perhaps  I  did  not  love  him  as  I  might  have 
loved  another.  But  I  must  own  that  wedded  life  at  first 
seemed  happy  ;  he  loved  me,  and  two  sweet  little  babies 
crowned  our  union. 

"All  went  well  till  a  friend  of  my  husband's  entered 
our  house — a  man  as  false  as  fair.  I  cannot  tell  how 
it  was,  but  he  cast  a  spell  over  me.  Was  it  that  I  loved 
him?  The  affection  I  felt  for  my  husband  was  quite 
different,  and  I  am  sure  it  was  true  ;  but  he  somehow 
had  never  waked  in  me  the  intoxicating  rapture  which 
that  other  one  called  forth.  I  felt  it  welling  up  in 
flames  of  fire  whenever  he  came  near  me.  Was  it  mad- 
ness ?  was  it  witchery  ?  I  think  it  was  a  power  of  evil 
seizing  upon  the  heated  blood  rather  than  on  the  mind 
or  heart.  It  worked  as  a  subtle  poison ;  but  though  a 
poison  it  was  very  sweet.  In  vain  I  struggled  against  it. 
Yet  I  can  hardly  say  that  I  struggled,  for  although  I 
knew  those  feelings  to  be  evil,  I  loved  to  dally  with 
them,  and  the  will  to  conquer  was  in  abeyance. 

"  Being  alone  with  him  one  day,  he,  carried  away  by 
passion,  caught  me  in  his  arms.  I  offered  no  real  resist- 
ance. I  felt  overtaken,  and  a  sensation  as  of  swooning 
seemed  uppermost.  Yet  I  must  have  made  some  invol- 
untary movement  of  escaping  from  his  hold  ;  for  the 
string  of  my  necklace,  giving  way  suddenly,  the  pearls 


192  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

rolled  hither  and  thither  about  the  apartment.  That 
brought  me  back  to  myself.  He  too  seemed  suddenly 
dispassioned.  It  was  as  though  an  invisible  hand  were 
attempting  to  part  us.  We  started  asunder. 

"  Yes,  we  had  been  sobered  all  at  once,  reality  staring 
us  in  the  face.  I  drew  myself  up,  requesting  his 
immediate  departure,  and  he  obeyed.  I  was  anxious  to 
look  for  my  pearls,  and  happily  I  found  them  all,  one 
only  remaining  lost,  the  blue  one  of  wedded  troth.  Alas! 
how  earnestly  I  sought  for  it,  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
but  it  had  disappeared  as  by  magic.  I  succeeded  in 
keeping  the  fact  from  my  husband  for  some  time,  and  I 
permitted  no  foot  save  mine  to  enter  the  fatal  room.  I 
sought  and  sought,  but  the  precious  pearl  was  lost. 
And  at  last  there  was  a  day  when  my  husband  saw  that 
it  was  gone.  It  was  a  terrible  moment!  He  said  little, 
but  from  that  hour  a  gloom  rested  on  his  brow,  which 
spoke  more  loudly  than  words  could  have  done.  I  under- 
stood it — 'Thy  troth  is  broken,  thy  purity  lost;  thou 
art  no  more  for  me  ! ' 

"  The  false  friend  also  seemed  stirred  in  conscience  ; 
he  kept  away.  How  it  was  with  him  I  know  not,  but  in 
me  the  fire  had  been  kindled  which  burned  with  a  hidden 
flame.  My  heart  had  conceived  sin,  and  the  wicked 
image  would  not  be  banished.  I  strove  against  it  feebly; 
it  was  stronger  than  I.  My  inward  gaze  followed  him 
spellbound;  and  with  him  was  my  every  thought.  Even 
in  dreams  I  was  his.  That  moment,  when  we  had  been 
so  very  near  to  actual  deed  of  sin,  had  left  its  taint. 
Sin  had  gained  an  ascendancy  over  me,  and  I  yielded 
helplessly  in  the  secret  chamber  of  my  heart.  And  yet 
that  heart  had  been  pure  before  it  knew  him,  and  evil 
thoughts  had  never  assailed  it.  Alas,  how  little  is  needed 
to  murder  innocence!  The  white  robe  of  my  soul  was 
soiled.  One  only  could  have  restored  it  to  cleanness, — 
He  who  would  not  condemn  the  woman  that  was  a  sin- 
ner. But  for  Him  I  looked  not,  groveling  as  I  lay  at 
the  feet  of  an  idol. 

"I  fell  ill,  and  even  in  illness  my  folly  was  upon  me, 
burning  within.  The  wild  fancies  of  fever  must  have 
laid  bare  my  inmost  soul  to  my  husband.  My  last 
thoughts  on  earth  clung  to  that  sinful  moment  that 
robbed  me  of  my  pearl.  I  was  the  prey  of  death — life 


LETTERS     FROM     HKT.T,.  tg^ 

vanished,  and,  lifting  my  eyes  again,  I  found  conscious- 
ness returning  in  the  torment  of  hell.  I  have  come  to 
own  the  justice.  ..." 

There  was  a  pause  of  silence,  and  then  Emily  con- 
tinued : 

"  Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  go  back  as  a  restless  spirit 
to  the  upper  world  ?  No  ?  Then  you  are  a  stranger 
happily  to  a  cruel  law  ruling  some  of  us  here.  /  could 
not  rest  in  hell  ;  go  back  I  must  to  seek  my  pearl.  I 
have  been  seeking — seeking — these  centuries  past,  but  it 
is  hopelessly  lost.  .  .  . 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  felt  on  first  returning,  a  dis- 
embodied soul,  to  my  former  home.  I  trembled  as  one 
on  forbidden  ground. 

"  Not  a  corner  of  the  big  old  house  I  left  unhaunted  ; 
in  passages  and  rooms,  from  cellar  to  garret,  I  have  been 
looking  for  my  pearl,  spreading  terror  everywhere.  But 
the  horror  seems  to  recoil  upon  me,  filling  me  with  fear 
and  trembling.  Every  inmate  of  that  house,  at  one  time 
or  another,  has  seen  the  white  lady  looking  for  some- 
thing with  a  lamp.  I  am  more  dreaded  than  the  near- 
ness of  death  itself.  One  old  servant  only  of  the  present 
household  seems  able  to  bear  the  sight  of  me.  He  has 
seen  me  so  often  that  I  believe  he  has  got  used  to  me  ; 
he  folds  his  hands  in  silent  prayer,  and  heeds  me  not. 
It  happens  sometimes  that  we  meet  and  meet  agaia  in 
the  long  dusky  passages,  he  following  his  business,  I 
bent  on  mine,  with  that  difference  between  us,  that  he 
walks  in  confidence  and  I  in  despair.  But  it  comforts 
my  poor  trembling  heart  to  come  upon  his  well-known 
figure  in  the  lonely  halls.  I  have  known  him  from  his 
youth  upward,  watched  him  doing  his  duty  in  upright- 
ness of  soul.  His  hair  is  white  now  and  his  figure 
stooping ;  but  the  nearer  death  he  seems,  the  more 
courageous  he  looks,  and  the  greater  his  fearlessness  in 
meeting  me.  He  alone  appears  to  feel  no  horror  at  my 
approach,  nor  need  he.  I  have  as  little  power  to  harm 
him  as  he  has  to  stop  me.  I  can  only  look  for  my 
pearl ! 

"  I  hasten  to  the  well-known  chamber.  This  is  the 
spot  where  for  one  fatal  moment  I  yielded  my  soul  to  sin 
and  was  lost  in  consequence.  Here  it  was  that  my  jewel 
vanished.  Here,  then,  I  seek  most  anxiously  with  inde- 


tp4  LETTERS  FROM   HELL. 

scribable  longing.  But  the  pearl  need  not  be  here;  some 
one  may  have  found  it  and  taken  it  away.  That  is  why 
I  search  the  house,  every  chamber  and  every  closet, 
peeping  into  my  lady's  jewel-case,  and  into  the  work-box 
of  the  humblest  servant-maid.  It  is  chiefly  among  the 
women  of  the  household  that  I  look  for  the  gem  I  lost. 

"  I  flit  through  corridors.  One  of  them  since  time 
immemorial  has  been  used  as  a  picture  gallery.  Here  I 
find  the  lifelike  image  of  the  husband  I  so  cruelly 
wronged.  I  dare  not  lift  my  eyes  to  it,  yet  I  seem 
rooted  to  the  ground  there  for  hours.  I  keep  thinking, 
might  there  not  be  an  expression  in  his  face, — the  shadow 
even  of  an  expression, — promising  forgiveness  and  resto- 
ration ?  But  I  dare  not  look  for  it ;  I  creep  away,  guilt 
trailing  behind  me. 

"  Guilt  and  shame,  for  my  own  picture  hangs  by  the 
side  of  his,  filling  the  measure  of  silent  reproach.  I 
fancy  that  picture  to  be  my  real  self  in  youth  and  inno- 
cence— myself  being  but  a  miserable  counterfeit. 

"  The  pictures  of  my  children  too,  my  lovely  babes  ! 
My  heart  yearns  for  them  who  once  found  their  heaven 
at  my  breast.  But,  alas,  they  are  strangers  to  me  now  ; 
they  look  down  upon  me  with  eyes  that  know  me  not. 
Them  also  I  betrayed,  robbing  them  of  their  mother's 
love,  and  they  need  me  not!  I  drop  my  eyes  in  bitter 
shame,  and  hurry  away. 

"  Some  seven  generations  I  have  seen  come  and  go, 
the  bonds*of  blood  uniting  us  ;  but  not  only  have  thej 
learned  to  look  upon  me  as  an  intruding  stranger,  but  to 
shun  me  as  a  very  vision  of  hell. 

"  The  venerable  house  has  fallen  into  evil  repute  as 
being  haunted.  The  family  have  often  thought  of  leav- 
ing it  or  pulling  it  down,  but  somehow  their  fortunes 
seem  bound  up  with  that  ancient  pile,  and  quitting 
becomes  impossible.  They  accept  the  trouble  of  my 
presence,  and  I  flit  about,  a  lifeless  shade  among  the 
living. 

"  The  absence  of  mystery  too  enables  them  to  put  up 
with  me.  I  am  known  to  be  their  ancestress,  and  my 
sad  history  in  all  its  details  is  a  matter  of  gossip  ;  the 
very  echoes  of  the  house  seem  to  whisper  about  the 
young  wife  who  was  so  lovely  but  faithless. 

"  The  fatal  necklace  is  an  heirloom  in  the  family.    But 


LETTERS   FROM    HKI.T,.  19$ 

the  central  pearl  is  missing.  A  diamond  cross  has  been 
added  in  its  stead — the  symbol  of  faith,  if  I  remember 
aright. 

"  It  is  my  necklace  still.  And  whenever  the  owner 
for  the  time  being  is  about  to  pass  away,  I  appear  by  her 
dying  bed  with  the  solemn  question,  'Where  is  the  pearl  ? ' 

"  For  several  generations  there  was  nothing  but  horror 
by  way  of  an  answer,  and,  dismayed  at  the  terrible  con- 
fusion I  created,  I  would  hurry  away  in  despair.  But 
an  expedient  has  been  found.  The  dying  women  now 
invariably  place  their  hand  on  their  Bible,  replying 
boldly,  '  The  pearl  is  found  !  We  have  this  as  a 
pledge  ! '  It  is  not  my  lost  pearl,  you  understand,  but 
there  is  no  gainsaying  their  reply.  Ah  me,  had  /  found 
that  pearl  of  great  price  which  gives  such  assurance  to 
dying  souls,  I  too  might  have  had  healing  comfort  for 
my  loss.  But  the  sin  remains,  my  pearl  is  gone,  and  I 
am  left  to  wail  in  torment !  " 

She  was  silent,  writhing  in  agony.  But  even  now, 
though  filled  with  despair,  her  face  preserved  an  expres- 
sion of  childlike  loveliness  and  most  engaging  innocence. 
How  bewitchingly  beautiful  she  was  !  And  I  thought 
to  myself,  were  it  not  that  she  stands  condemned  out  of 
her  own  mouth,  and  had  another  told  me  her  story,  it 
would  seem  impossible  to  believe  it,  to  credit  so  fair  a 
creature  with  such  a  measure  of  indwelling  wrong. 

Behold  the  growth  of  passion  !  It  is  but  a  passing 
thought  perchance,  moving  the  heart.  Whence  is  it — 
who  can  tell  ?  Whence  is  the  sudden  cloud  darkening 
the  fair  heaven  ?  and  whence  the  electric  spark  ?  Your 
mind  conceives  ;  and  your  heart,  unless  you  guard  it, 
will  nurse  the  awful  birth.  The  fiery  influence  shoots 
through  your  being.  Your  nerves  tremble,  your  blood 
is  aflame.  And  though  quiet  may  be  restored,  there  is 
that  within  you  which  at  any  moment  may  course 
through  your  veins  afresh.  For  remember,  if  you  had 
an  ocean  of  the  red  stream  of  life,  one  drop  of  poison 
might  vitiate  it.  Alas,  it  is  more  than  a  drop  ;  the 
tempting  thought  has  grown  to  a  power  of  evil  possess- 
ing you  —  a  nature  within  your  nature — wild,  lawless, 
and  leading  you  captive.  Sin  has  taken  root  in  your 
soul,  innocent  though  it  found  you.  How  far  it  may 
take  you  God  alone  can  tell. 


ig6  T.KTTKRS     FROM      1 1  K  i   I,. 

Watch  over  your  thoughts,  then,  lest  they  ruin  your 
soul !  Watch,  I  say,  and  stifle  sin  in  its  birth.  It  may 
be  a  small  thing  at  first,  but  how  awful  is  the  growth, 
suffusing  body  and  soul  with  poison,  doubly  dangerous 
for  its  seeming  sweetness  !  Has  it  seized  your  heart — 
ah,  fly  to  the  Physician. 

Where  is  He  ? 

Alas,  my  friend,  I  know  not. 


LETTER  XXV. 

SNATCHES  of  song  keep  running  in  my  head  ;  it  is  not 
I  who  seize  upon  melody,  but  the  melody  takes  hold  of 
me.  You  little  think  what  power  of  torment  there  may 
be  bound  up  in  music,  and  the  sweeter  its  echoes,  the 
more  cruelly  they  fall  upon  the  soul.  I  do  not  refer  to 
memories  that  may  be  connected  with  sound  ;  they  may 
be  very  bitter,  but  we  are  used  to  that  and  can  hardly 
expect  it  to  be  otherwise  ;  it  is  not  this  I  mean.  But 
there  is  that  in  music  which  is.  utterly  discordant  with 
this  place  of  woe,  producing  a  terrible  jar  in  the  soul. 
Harmony  and  hell — the  bare  thought  is  enough  to  dis- 
tract you.  What  is  music  but  a  longing  for  the  infinite, 
filling  you  with  a  foretaste  of  joy  and  beauty  unspeak- 
able ?  But  for  us  the  truth  of  such  longing  has  vanished, 
since  we  are  forever  severed  from  that  promised  world, 
toward  the  shores  of  which  the  waves  of  highest  melody 
will  ever  tend.  Now  only  I  understand  the  full  power 
of  music  ;  but  the  knowledge  is  clothed  with  terrible 
pain,  giving  you  a  glimpse  of  Paradise,  and  leaving  you 
in  hell  !  .  .  . 

What  was  the  name  of  that  place  among  the  hills  of 
Samaria  where  we  rested  one  noonday  hour  in  the 
shadow  of  palm  trees  ?  Was  it  not  Shechem  or  Sychar  ? 
The  people  there  will  tell  you  that  a  certain  broken 
cistern,  which  still  yields  water,  is  the  identical  well 
where  Jacob  wept  for  joy  on  seeing  Rachel  with  her 
father's  sheep.  Never  have  I  known  greener  fields  or 
more  luxuriant  vegetation  than  at  this  blessed  spot,  stern 
heights  rising  about  you.  The  whole  valley  seemed  a 
garden,  rich  in  figs  and  mulberries,  in  pomegranates, 


LETTERS    FROM    IIELL.  197 

vines  and  sycamores.  The  date-palm,  the  cactus,  the 
aloe,  grow  in  profusion  ;  olive  groves  at  the  foot  of  the 
hills,  pines  and  evergreen  oaks  climbing  beyond. 

But  there  was  no  rest  for  us  by  Jacob's  well.  The 
heat  was  intense,  even  in  the  deepest  shade,  and  the 
plague  of  insects  was  intolerable.  We  were  glad,  there- 
fore, to  shorten  our  siesta  and  seek  the  cooler  upland 
air.  On  the  road  Lily  told  me  a  story. 

Let  me  repeat  it.  Two  things,  however,  may  surprise 
you  with  regard  to  this  narrative,  which  treats  of  faith 
— a  weak  wavering  faith  it  is  true,  but  seeking  for 
strength. 

You  may  wonder  in  the  first  place  that  Lily  should 
have  told  it,  whose  pure,  steadfast,  childlike  faith  never 
knew  the  sorrows  of  tempting  doubt.  Of  course  she 
may  have  read  the  story,  but  how  she  should  give  it 
with  such  vividness  I  cannot  tell. 

You  may  be  surprised,  secondly,  that  /  should  repeat 
it  who  am  forever  lost  to  the  blessedness  of  believing. 
For  had  I  but  tbe  poorest  remnant  left,  this  very  fact,  I 
doubt  not,  would  bring  me  within  the  reach  of  salvation. 
It  is  memory  only  which  has  a  hold  of  this  little  story  ; 
and  though  it  may  stir  my  feelings,  the  spirit  is  dead — 
dead.  Pity  me  my  friend  ;  but  you  cannot  understand 
the  fearful  mockery  of  speaking  of  things  pertaining  to 
faith — the  very  life  of  the  soul — and  having  no  part  in 
them !  They  seem  to  rise  before  me,  beckoning  me  to 
lay  hold  on  them;  I  stretch  forth  my  hand,  and  lo,  there 
is  a  hopeless  blank. 

It  is  just  like  trying  to  call  back  a  face  you  have  known; 
you  see  now  the  eyes,  now  the  mouth,  now  this  expres- 
sion, now  that ;  but  the  living  whole  will  not  return  to 
you. 

Yea,  and  it  is  a  face  for  which  I  thirst  and  hunger — 
even  the  face  of  Him  who  died  on  the  Cross.  I  can 
speak  now  of  this  feature,  now  of  that — of  His  won- 
drous love,  His  humility,  His  grace  ;  but  I  cannot  see 
Him — the  man  of  sorrows — who  alone  could  yearn  over 
a  soul  in  hell. 

But  enough  !  Whatever  trouble  weighed  upon  the 
spirit  of  him  of  whom  Lily's  story  told,  it  must  have 
been  light  and  peace,  compared  with  the  fearful  dark- 
ness enveloping  me. 


198  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

This  is  what  I  remember  : 

"  When  the  Apostle  Peter  took  his  last  leave  of  the 
Christian  people  of  Antioch,  having  set  his  face  toward 
Rome  to  follow  his  Lord  in  death,  a  great  number  of  the 
faithful,  young  and  old,  accompanied  the  beloved  Father 
beyond  the  city.  But  they  had  to  separate,  weeping  as 
He  blessed  them  ;  and  returning  to  their  homes,  they 
yielded  their  hearts  to  the  will  of  God.  The  apostle 
went  his  way. 

"  But  there  was  one,  old  in  years,  who,  having 
shared  in  the  parting  benediction,  yet  followed  in  the 
distance.  And  Peter,  perceiving  him,  beckoned  him  to 
approach. 

" '  Thou  art  troubled  my  son,'  said  the  aged  apostle, 
with  winning  love  ;  '  what  is  it  that  oppresses  thy  heart '  ? 

" '  Father,'  replied  the  stranger  timorously,  '  is  it  not 
faith  which  justifies  man  in  the  sight  of  God,  and  makes 
him  an  heir  of  the  kingdom  ? ' 

"  '  Yea  surely.     Canst  thou  not  believe  ? ' 

" '  I  do  believe,  beloved  Father,  but  I  cannot  tell 
whether  it  is  saving  faith.  It  seems  so  weak  and  waver- 
ing, and  yet  by  faith  alone  I  may  reach  to  heaven.  That 
is  my  grief  !  I  seem  to  be  able  to  believe,  fully  and 
ardently  at  times,  but  not  for  long  ;  and  again  I  am  left 
troubled  and  doubting.  Faith  seems  to  be  shattered  to 
pieces  then,  robbing  me  of  all  assurance,  and  were  it  not 
for  the  blessed  name  of  the  Saviour,  I  had  nothing  left 
to  cling  to.  I  have  known  moments  when  I  seemed 
to  rise  as  on  wings  of  trust,  when  the  fullness  of  heaven 
seemed  given  me.  At  such  times  I  tasted  all  the  blessed- 
ness of  believing  that  he  who  seeks  shall  find  ;  that  he 
who  knocks  shall  be  received  of  God  ;  of  believing  fully 
that  I,  led  and  taught  by  the  Holy  Spirit,  would  never 
again  wander  away  from  my  Father  in  heaven  ;  that  I 
was  bought  with  a  price,  even  the  precious  blood  of 
Christ  ;  and  that  His  love  would  hold  me  safe  to  all 
eternity.  I  have  known  such  faith  as  this,  and,  believe 
me,  Father  Peter,  it  was  free  from  self-sufficient  thoughts. 
And  yet  it  cannot  be  saving  faith  ;  for  at  the  very 
moment,  sometimes  when  my  heart  seemed  nearest  to 
the  blessed  communion  of  my  Saviour,  sin  was  at  hand, 
and  I  fell  grievously,  losing  the  sense  of  divine  accept- 
ance, and  finding  myself  in  the  dust,  bleeding  and  help- 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  199 

less,  and  more  miserable  than  he  whom  the  thieves  left 
lying  on  the  road  to  Jericho  ;  but  the  Good  Samaritan 
was  far — far  away  ! 

"  '  Alas,  Father,  my  sufferings  at  such  times  are  great. 
The  sneers  of  the  unbelieving  at  the  power  of  faith  I 
could  have  borne  ;  but  that  the  experience  of  my  own 
heart  should  confirm  such  doubt  distresses  me  greatly. 

" '  Yet  so  far  I  have  always  risen  to  my  feet  again,  to 
renew  the  conflict ;  shutting  my  doors  on  unbelief,  and 
willing  to  be  led  as  a  little  child  by  Him  who  came  to 
save.  But  woe  is  me,  I  am  not  saved — I  think  I  am 
standing,  and  lo,  I  fall. 

"  '  I  am  truly  grieved  at  this  my  state,  but  repentance 
never  yet  gained  me  that  power  of  the  Spirit  that  might 
fit  me  for  more  real  fellowship  with  Christ.  Alas,  Father 
Peter,  my  sorest  weeping  avails  me  not.  When  thou 
hadst  fallen,  thou  didst  weep  I  know ;  but  thou  couldst 
rise  from  tears  more  firmly  planted  than  before,  never 
again  to  deny  the  blessed  Lord.  But  not  so  I — I  fall,  I 
weep  ;  I  rise,  I  fall,  denying  the  Master  continually. 

" '  You  see,  holy  Father,  what  manner  of  faith  this  is  ! 
There  is  but  one  thing  I  am  sure  of,  even  the  name  of 
the  Saviour  which  alone  has  never  left  me  ;  aught  else 
is  wavering  and,  I  doubt  me,  no  certain  foundation. 
Had  I  not  been  troubled  already,  I  must  have  been  filled 
with  fear  and  trembling  on  hearing  the  word  lately — 
Show  thy  faith  by  thy  works  !  For  alas  my  works,  if  not 
altogether  evil,  are  full  of  imperfection  testifying  against 
my  faith.  How,  then,  shall  it  save  me,  if  this  is  all  my 
hope  of  acceptance? 

"  '  I  look  back  on  life,  and  lo,  I  see  a  continued  struggle 
— now  in  sorrow,  now  in  despair.  I  will  not  say  I  have 
lost  hope  entirely  ;  nay,  I  know  that  in  spite  of  defeat  I 
must  go  on  battling,  remembering  that  salvation  is  not  of 
man's  striving,  but  of  God's  giving.  But  I  am  old  now, 
fast  approaching  the  time  when  no  man  can  work.  Dare 
I  hope  for  victory?  will  it  be  given  to  such  weakness  of 
faith?  I  am  full  of  fear,  clinging  to  the  one  hope  only 
that  the  Good  Samaritan,  whose  name  I  have  believed  in, 
for  all  my  backslidings,  will  come  to  me  at  the  last  to  lift 
me  in  His  arms  of  pity  and  carry  me  home. 

"'But  will  He  do  it  ?  He  has  bound  up  my  wounds 
again  and  again ;  will  He  accept  me  in  the  end  ?  I  dare  not 


200  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

plead  my  faith, —  weak  and  wavering  as  it  is,  I  am 
unworthy  of  His  saving  mercy.  I  have  not  loved  Him  as 
I  ought;  even  less  than  father  or  mother,  or  son  or 
daughter,  coming  continually  between  me  and  him.  Ah, 
what  shall  I  do  to  find  his  peace  ?  what  shall  I  do  to  be 
sure  of  being  saved?' 

"  The  apostle  had  listened  in  silence.  His  countenance 
shone  with  a  heavenly  light,  his  eyes  seeking  for  things 
afar.  What  was  it  that  moved  in  his  soul,  radiating  from 
his  brow — what  blessed  memory  of  a  day  gone  by?  The 
Spirit  had  carried  him  back  to  the  sea  of  Tiberias,  and  he 
hears  the  voice  of  the  risen  Saviour,  '  Simon,  son  of  Jonas, 
lovest  thou  me?'  And  now,  as  then,  his  heart  makes 
answer,  'Yea,  Lord,  Thou  knowest  that  I  love  Thee.' 
And  his  Lord  repeats,  'Feed  my  sheep.' 

" '  My  sheep ! '  He  looked  upon  the  aged  man.  Here 
was  one  of  the  Good  Shepherd's  wandering  sheep.  And 
greatly  moved,  the  apostle  said  : 

"'My  brother,  if  faith,  being  poor,  cannot  help  thee, 
try  love.  Mark  my  words ;  let  it  be  thy  one  desire 
henceforth  to  show  to  the  Lord  that  thou  lovest  Him. 
Let  nothing  be  too  great,  and  nothing  too  little,  to  do 
for  His  sake.  Let  love  to  Him  be  thy  staff  and  thy 
strength,  and  thou  shalt  find  peace  for  thy  soul.  Thy 
very  endeavor  to  prove  thy  love  to  Him  will  make  thee 
rich  in  the  assurance  of  His  love.  It  will  fill  thy  soul,  it 
will  save  thee  utterly.  Love  for  thee  also  will  be  the 
law's  fulfillment. 

" '  Behold,'  he  added,  '  how  wondrous  is  His  love  ! 
steeping  thee  in  blessing  even  while  thou  art  sacrificing 
all.  Whatever  thou  doest  for  Him  comes  back  to  thee. 
He  never  takes;  He  only  gives,  fulfilling  His  own  word 
that  it  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive.  Yet  it  is 
thy  love  He  looks  for.' 

'"But  what  of  faith,  my  Father,'  asked  the  stranger 
doubtingly,  'by  which  alone  we  are  said  to  live?' 

"A  happy  smile  lit  up  the  apostle's  countenance,  and 
he  replied  : 

" '  It  will  be  well,  my  son,  with  faith  even.  Thinkest 
thou  it  could  be  absent  where  love  lives  and  moves?  Go 
thy  way,  and  hold  fast  that  which  thou  hast ;  and  grace 
and  peace  be  with  thee  evermore.'  " 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  2O1 


Have  I  not  spoken  some  time  ago  of  a  peculiar  pain, 
a  separate  sorrow  ?  Ah,  my  friend,  I  have  not  told  thee 
all. 

We  are  ever  on  the  verge  of  despair  ;  a  touch,  a  thought 
only,  and  we  are  in  the  midst  of  it ;  it  is  incessantly 
welling  up  from  the  depth  of  our  own  heart,  ready  to 
engulf  us.  The  mind  at  times  resists  with  a  frenzied 
power,  but  only  to  sink  back  in  defeat.  And  the  worst  of 
it  is  that  I  am  struggling  as  it  were  on  both  sides,  offering 
agonized  resistance,  while  turning  tooth  and  nail  against 
myself  in  maddest  hatred. 

How  long  these  fits  may  last  I  cannot  tell ;  it  is  not 
with  us  as  with  you,  that  exhausted  nature  herself 
yields  the  remedy.  There  is  no  nature  here,  but  only 
existence. 

But  the  paroxysm  ceases.  There  seems  to  be  a  climax 
of  fury  ;  when  I  have  beaten  myself  out,  so  to  speak, 
there  is  a  lull. 

But  sometimes — ah  !  this  is  the  deepest  experience, 
would  I  could  say  the  most  precious  !  but  that  is  more 
than  hell  admits  of, — sometimes,  as  the  waves  of  mad- 
ness sink  away,  there  rises  a  vision  to  my  soul,  wondrous 
and  holy,  even  the  image  of  the  Crucified  One.  And 
there  is  a  sudden  calm,  despair  seems  drowned,  and  all 
is  still.  Not  that  suffering  ceases,  but  an  all-enfolding 
sense  of  loss  has  swallowed  up  the  rest.  I  stand  accused 
— I  hear  a  voice  crying  :  '  It  is  thou,  thou  who  broughtst 
Him  to  the  cursed  tree  ? ' 

Did  I  say  vision  ?  Nay,  the  very  word  is  too  much. 
I  was  a  prey  to  longing,  but  I  dare  not  delude  myself ; 
such  seeing  is  not  for  me.  The  hungry  spirit  imagined 
for  a  moment — I  see  the  Cross — the  thorn- crowned 
figure — I  look — and  it  is  gone  !  Yet  I  seem  to  feel  it 
present,  if  only  I  could  pierce  the  hiding  darkness.  I 
gaze  and  gaze,  but  tenfold  night  enwraps  the  longing 
soul. 

Him  who  died  I  see  not,  but  the  Cross  keeps  dawning 
forth  and  receding.  Beyond  it  I  get  not.  I  once  knew 
the  story,  but  it  is  gone,  gone ;  and  the  more  I  try  to 
remember,  the  greater  seems  the  blank.  Tell  me, 
ought  I  to  despair,  ought  I  to  rejoice  ?  I  see  a  Cross 
truly,  though  an  empty  one  !  Did  He  not  die  on  the 


2O2  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

Cross  ?  Why  should  it  keep  rising  before  me  ?  Is  it  for 
punishment  ?  is  it  for  hope  ?  Was  not  there  something 
about  taking  up  the  Cross  and  following? 

Happy,  thrice  happy,  O  men  and  women,  having  a 
cross  to  bear  !  Murmur  not,  but  bear  it  willingly,  lest 
the  time  come  when  ye  long  for  it,  and  find  it  an  empty 
vision  the  very  burden  gone. 


LETTER    XXVI. 

WE  were  sitting  together  on  a  high  cliff  overlooking  a 
northern  sea.  A  few  solitary  trees  stretched  forth  their 
branches  above  us,  a  landmark  for  vessels  sailing  by. 
Far  below  us,  the  murmuring  waves  broke  in  melodious 
cadence,  leaving  their  mysterious  message  with  the  lonely 
shore. 

Evening  was  stealing  across  the  sky  with  those  linger- 
ing touches  known  only  in  the  distant  north,  night  hesi- 
tating, though  the  sun  be  about  to  set.  Sleeping  nature 
there  is  curtained  in  a  balmy  twilight,  steeped  in  the  tints 
of  vanished  sunbeams,  and  hiding  with  tender  shadows 
both  land  and  sea.  In  the  north  only  summer-time 
reaches  its  fullest  meaning,  each  sinking  day  leading 
forth  the  radiant  morn  ;  darkness  is  not,  but  a  dreamful 
dusk  in  its  stead.  Nothing  more  beautiful  than  those 
evening  hours  with  their  slowly  settling  calm ;  how 
enchanting  the  stillness,  how  full  of  poetry  the  hushed 
expanse,  the  slumbrous  sea  at  your  feet,  and  the  distant 
shore  blushing  with  the  kisses  of  parting  day. 

But  I  was  heeedless  of  it  all,  for  she  sat  by  me.  Her 
deft  little  hands  were  busy  with  some  needlework.  I  was 
to  read  to  her,  but  the  book  had  dropped  from  my  hold, 
and  I  was  fast  losing  myself  in  dreams.  How  sweet  she 
was  in  her  springtime  of  youth,  just  entering  upon  her 
sixteenth  year.  There  was  something  unutterably  attract- 
ive in  that  first  unfolding  of  womanhood,  so  tenderly 
appealing,  so  holy  withal. 

She  was  very  white,  but  it  was  the  transparent  white- 
ness of  the  lily  suffused  with  a  faint  reflection  of  the  sun- 
set sky.  The  red  life-stream  of  youth,  fragrant  and 
pure,  throbbed  beneath  her  delicate  skin  ;  it  took  but 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  203 

little  to  call  up  bewitching  blushes  to  her  lovely  face. 
A  wealth  of  hair  crowned  her  ;  it  fell  in  silky  masses 
about  her  shoulders,  and  her  long  lashes  appeared  to 
withhold  a  depth  of  beauty  from  your  longing  gaze. 
There  was  something  infinitely  childlike  about  her 
mouth  and  the  sweet  oval  of  her  face  ;  but  it  blended 
with  an  impress  of  womanhood,  a  mystery  to  be  wor- 
shiped. 

A  peculiar  stillness  veiled  her  being — a  calm  of  life,  if 
so  I  may  call  it ;  the  gentle  breathing  moved  her  bosom, 
and  her  hands  flitted  lightly  about  her  work.  She  was 
busy  with  her  own  thoughts,  which  seemed  to  glide 
across  her  features  like  sunbeams,  leaving  a  smile 
behind. 

But  as  I  sat  wrapt  in  the  sight  of  her,  the  good  angel 
watching  me  turned  and  wept.  The  evil  spirit  was  fast 
gaining  the  upper  hand.  But  even  at  such  moments  the 
pure  soul  of  hers  had  power  to  subdue. 

Unconscious  of  aught  else,  no  movement  in  her 
escaped  me.  I  soon  perceived  glow  chasing  glow  on 
her  cheek,  and  mantling  her  brow  ;  her  hands  trembled. 
Signs  of  warning  these,  if  I  could  have  called  back  the 
better  self. 

At  last  her  eye  met  mine  with  a  look  of  gentle  reproof, 
steeped  in  dignity.  The  spell  was  broken  ;  a  feeling  of 
contrition  swept  my  senses.  The  good  angel  was  ready 
to  lift  me  above  the  mire  of  earth-born  passion. 

"  Why  do  you  keep  looking  at  me  so  persistently  ? "  she 
said. 

"  Why,  Lily  ?" — what  could  I  say — "  Do  you  dislike  it  ?" 

"  I  am  sorry  to  seem^inkind,  Philip,"  she  said,  "  but  I 
do  dislike  it.  If  you  stare  at  me  like  that  I  feel  strangely 
troubled — like  a  bird  held  fast  by  cruel  hands.  I  do  not 
know  why  ;  but  you  might  as  well  look  elsewhere — could 
you  not,  dear  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  I  said,  smiling  at  the  simple  question. 
"  But  do  you  think  I  could  harm  you  ?  Are  you  afraid 
of  me  ?  " 

"  Afraid  of  you  !  "  she  cried,  roused  to  sprightliness  ; 
"that  is  strange.  I  might  as  well  ask  whether  you 
are  afraid  of  me — are  you  ? "  And  she  put  her  little 
hand  in  mine.  "  Are  you  angry  ?  "  she  went  on  gently, 
after  a  while. 


204  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

Yes  I  was,  but  not  with  her.  I  hated  myself,  but 
answered  quietly  enough  : 

"  When  was  I  angry  with  you  last,  Lily  ;  let  me  see  ? " 

"  I  don't  remember  it  in  the  least,"  she  said,  brighten- 
ing more  and  more.  "  But  come,  we  had  better  think  of 
home  now." 

And  she  took  my  arm,  looking  at  me  with  her  trustful 
eyes,  as  if  to  say  that  fear  of  me  was  altogether  impos- 
sible. But  she  did  not  even  think  it :  /  only  laid  hold 
of  the  thought,  and  felt  happy  again. 

We  went  along  the  cliff.  It  was  a  rich  balmy  evening 
in  June.  On  the  strand  below,  the  fishing  boats  offered 
a  busy  scene  ;  a  few  yachts  in  the  distance  glided  before 
the  breeze.  And  on  the  horizon  an  island  coast  lay 
shrouded  in  a  mystery  of  transfiguring  light.  It  was 
one  of  these  rare  evenings  when  earth's  beauty  seems 
touched  with  a  reflection  of  heaven's  perfect  bliss. 

"  Afraid  of  you  !  "  Lily  repeated,  reverting  gaily  to 
the  thread  we  had  dropped.  "  That  was  the  strangest 
idea  you  ever  had  !  On  the  contrary,  I  feel  wonderfully 
secure  and  taken  care  of,  and  the  thought  of  your  man- 
liness fills  me  with  pride.  I  fancy  sometimes  that 
strength  is  given  to  you  for  me  as  well, — that  you  would 
never  allow  any  one  to  hurt  me,  and  I  say  to  myself, 
Who  could  resist  him  ?  It  must  be  a  grand  thing  to  be 
a  man  and  do  noble  things  in  life  ;  but  I  think  it  is  bet- 
ter still  to  be  a  woman  and  be  cared  for  by  a  man  who  is 
noble  and  strong.  And  you  know  things  much  better 
than  I  do.  They  say  there  is  much  evil  in  the  world  ;  it 
is  sad,  but  I  suppose  it  is  true^  Now  a  man  with  your 
knowledge  sees  things,  and  sees  through  them  ;  he  must 
be  comparatively  safe  from  evil,  and  be  able  to  hold 
others  safe.  That  is  why  I  feel  so  happy  by  your  side, 
as  though  I  could  follow  blindly  wherever  you  lead  me. 
I  care  not  to  be  strong  and  clever  myself,  since  I  have 
all  I  need  in  you.  You  are  noble,  I  am  sure,  and  ready, 
not  only  to  defend  those  you  love,  but  even  to  give  up 
anything  for  their  sake.  I  like  to  fancy  myself  in  trouble 
and  danger  ;  it  is  quite  a  pleasant  sensation,  so  long  as  I 
have  you  near  me.  I  am  sure  you  would  even  risk  your 
life  for  me,  would  you  not  ?  You  smile  ;  but  don't  think 
me  silly.  I  am  quite  sure  you  are  good  and  noble  and 
strong." 


'LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  205 

Of  course  I  smiled.  My  soul  seemed  lit  up  as  with  a 
thousand  stars,  dispelling  everything  that  need  shun  the 
light.  What  a  wondrous  power  that  child  had  over  me, 
lifting  me  above  myself  into  her  own  atmosphere  of 
purity  !  I  may  well  call  it  an  influence  divine.  I  seemed 
to  rise  from  the  dust  and  to  be  what  she  believed  me, — 
one  stronger  than  she,  good  and  wise,  well  fitted  to  be 
the  guardian  of  her  trustful  life.  O  happy  moment — 
never  to  return  ! 

The  evening  was  fading  ;  we  were  not  far  from  our 
dwelling.  We  had  reached  a  place  where  we  often  rested, 
on  the  top  of  a  towering  cliff  rising  several  hundred  feet 
above  the  sea.  At  high-water  the  waves  would  beat 
about  the  foot  of  it,  foaming  and  curling,  and  falling 
back  exhausted.  But  the  tide  was  low  now,  and  the 
silvery  ripples  in  the  distance  hardly  touched  the  ear. 
On  the  top  of  the  cliff  a  flagstaff  had  been  erected, 
something  in  the  shape  of  a  cross  ;  beneath  it  there  was 
a  low  wooden  bench.  We  sat  down,  Lily  and  I,  as  we 
had  often  done  before.  The  top  of  the  cliff  was  still 
within  reach  of  the  parting  light ;  all  about  us — land, 
sea,  and  sky — seemed  veiled  in  calm.  We  sat  silent  ;  a 
sacred  stillness,  the  peace  of  nature  at  rest,  enfolded  our 
hearts. 

"  Look!  "  cried  Lily  suddenly,  pointing  upward. 

A  flight  of  sea  birds  winging  their  way  across  the  deep 
— high  above  us,  but  it  was  so  still  that  we  heard  them 
plainly.  We  followed  them  with  our  eyes  till  they  van- 
ished in  the  dusk. 

"  They  are  gone,"  said  Lily  with  a  deep-drawn  sigh. 
"  Were  they  not  like  blessed  souls  journeying  to  the  better 
land,  where  sorrow  is  not,  nor  death  nor  pain,  and  tears 
are  wiped  away  ?  How  they  must  rejoice.  What  long- 
ing— what  triumph  !  " 

Strange  to  say,  a  similar  idea  had  come  to  me.  My 
soul  was  open  to  uplifting  thoughts. 

The  silence  was  broken.  And  presently  we  talked 
about  the  music  of  the  sea — the  monotonous  rhythm  of 
which  seems  ever  new.  I  compared  the  rising  and  sinking 
of  the  waters  to  a  pendulum,  measuring  the  ages  of  eternity. 

And  we  spoke  of  the  wondrous  longing  in  the  human 
heart,  ever  reaching  to  that  which  is  afar,  above,  beyond  ; 
making  it  restless  even  in  the  lap  of  content, 


2<-6  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

Again  we  were  silent,  and  then  Lily  said  : 

"How  beautiful  that  the  sign  of  the  Cross  should 
overlook  the  sea  from  this  high  cliff  !  How  the  sight  of 
it  must  flash  comfort  across  the  deep,  cheering  the  sailor 
in  time  of  trouble,  perhaps,  when  he  is  battling  against 
wind  and  wave.  The  white  cliff  will  be  seen  afar,  and 
the  Cross  must  seem  to  stretch  forth  arms  of  blessing, 
sending  the  message  far  and  wide  :  '  Fear  not,  for  I  have 
redeemed  thee — thou  art  mine  ! ' ' 

"But,  Lily,  not  everybody  shares  your  feelings  ;  this 
Cross,  as  you  call  it,  to  most  sailors  will  be  a  mere  flag- 
staff." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  she  said  ;  "  but  Christian  people  are 
alike  in  deepest  feeling  nevertheless." 

She  paused  and  then  continued,  closing  her  hands  on 
my  arm  unconsciously  : 

"  For  my  own  part,  I  have  often  felt  the  power  of  the 
Cross,  young  as  I  am.  I  love  to  think  of  it  as  a  symbol. 
Sometimes,  when  I  am  troubled,  I  need  but  call  the 
thought  of  it  to  mind,  and  quiet  is  restored.  It  seems 
marvelous,  but  it  is  natural  after  all ;  for  do  we  not  know 
that  love  for  us  brought  Him  to  the  Cross." 

"  Can  your  heart  even  be  troubled,  Lily  ? " 

"  Yes,  often.  It  is  true  I  have  everything  to  make  me 
happy,  but  unrest  often  fills  my  soul.  I  suppose  it  must 
be  so  while  we  are  in  this  life." 

She  was  right :  the  heart  of  man  will  be  battling  for 
deepest  rest  to  the  last. 

"  But  I  have  what  is  better  than  the  Cross  to  help  me," 
Lily  continued,  rising  and  leaning  against  it — "  His  own 
dear  name.  Whatever  trouble  may  come  to  me,  I  need 
but  whisper  that  name,  and  peace  straightway  flows 
down  upon  me.  His  own  peace  so  full  of  healing  :  surely 
it  is  blessed  to  call  on  Him  in  all  things  !  Have  you 
tried  it,  Philip  ?  Oh,  do  ;  it  is  so  easy  to  turn  to  Him 
with  all  our  griefs  and  failings.  It  needs  but  a  word, 
a  clinging  to  His  name,  and  the  blessing  is  given.  I 
know  it.  I  have  found  it  so." 

No,  I  could  not  say  I  had  tried  ;  at  least  never  since  I 
was  wont  to  pray  by  Aunt  Betty's  knee.  But  .  .  .  what 
was  that  moving  within,  stirring  my  deepest  soul  ?  .  .  . 
Yes  ...  I  would  listen,  I  would  follow  and  try. 

The  Good  Shepherd  standing  at  the  door — it  was  not 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  207 

His  fault  that  salvation  was  offered  in  vain.  I  heard 
Him  knocking  even  then,  and  His  fear  fell  upon  me. 
"Is  it  Thou,  Lord?"  I  cried  tremblingly,  "alas,  I  am 
not  ready  ;  I  will  let  Thee  in  when  the  place  is  pre- 
pared ! "  And  feebly  I  set  about  sweeping  and  garnish- 
ing it,  keeping  Him  waiting  till  it  was  too  late. 


LETTER  XXVII. 

MY  letters  are  becoming  few  and  far  between.  I  dread 
the  effort  more  and  more,  though  I  feel  urged  to  write. 
I  yield,  but  only  to  be  seized  with  an  indescribable  reluc- 
tance, and  I  drop  the  pen  in  the  midst  of  a  sentence 
perhaps. 

This  reminds  me  of  Aunt  Betty's  letters  luckily.  That 
will  help  me  to  catch  a  thread,  for  I  assure  you  the  very 
sight  of  ink  is  sickening  to  me.  But  the  memory  of  Aunt 
Betty  is  like  a  refreshing  breeze. 

Now  Aunt  Betty's  letters  were  a  very  image  of  herself 
— bubbling  over,  candid,  and  sometimes  queer,  without 
the  faintest  pretence  at  elaboration.  She  had  no  time 
for  thought  or  composition,  she  said  ;  and  she  wrote 
none  but  so-called  confidential  letters.  But  the  fact  was 
that  her  missives  sometimes  would  produce  the  strangest 
confusion. 

I  remember  her  coming  flying  into  my  mother's  room 
one  day  with  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  She  must  be  stark  staring  mad  !  "  she  cried  excitedly. 
"  What  am  I  to  do  with  Jemima's  paupers  ?  Was  there 
ever  such  a  misunderstanding  ? " 

We  tried  to  calm  her,  and  begged  for  an  explanation. 
I  was  a  half-grown  lad  at  the  time.  Auntie  plunged  into 
the  subject. 

"  There  was  a  poor  sick  woman  with  a  handful  of 
children  whom  I  assisted  in  supporting,  while  the  husband 
served  his  term  for  housebreaking.  Now,  Jemima  wrote 
to  me  the  other  day  that  the  convict  had  returned — that 
the  wife  had  died,  leaving  him  as  helpless  as  any  of  his 
babes.  Would  I  suggest  what  could  be  done  ? 

"  1  did  the  nearest  thing  at  hand,  despatching  some 
money  and  begging  her  to  send  particulars  as  to  age,  sex, 


2o8  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

and  the  rest  of  it ;  I  would  try  and  find  homes  for  them." 

"  The  sex  of  the  husband,  auntie  ? "  I  interposed 
roguishly. 

"  Don't  interrupt  me  with  your  nonsense,  Philip.  It 
is  too  much  of  a  mess,  and  I  am  sure  a  great  trouble  to 
dispose  of.  Can  you  imagine  that  stupid  Jemima  sending 
me  the  whole  lot  of  them  bodily  ?  There  they  are  in  the 
housekeeper's  room,  eight  blessed  souls,  imagining  I  have 
homes  for  them  in  my  pocket.  That  hulking  convict, 
above  all  things,  smelling  horribly  of  tobacco.  What 
am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  you  meant  to  write  for  particulars,  and  wrote 
for  the  family  instead  !  "  I  suggested. 

"  How  can  you  be  so  stupid,  Philip  ?  I  am  sure  my 
letters  are  as  plain  as  ink  ;  no  child  could  mistake  their 
meaning.  Jemima  must  have  lost  her  head  !  " 

The  convict  and  his  offspring,  meanwhile,  were  solac- 
ing themselves  in  the  housekeeper's  room,  overflowing 
with  thanks,  and  nothing  seemed  further  from  their 
minds  than  the  idea  of  ever  leaving  again,  Aunt  Betty 
meantime  running  to  and  fro  asking  distractedly — 
"  What  should  she  do  with  them  ? " 

However,  she  found  my  father  coming  to  the  rescue, 
and  the  misunderstanding  proved  prolific  of  bless- 
ing, inasmuch  as  the  former  housebreaker  was  before 
long  started  in  a  course  of  honesty,  and  his  flock  of 
children  cared  for. 

You  have  followed  me  so  far,  and  I  have  told  you  that 
evil  desires,  vainly  seeking  to  be  gratified,  are  an  ever- 
burning fire  here  ;  but  to  what  extent  this  is  true  you 
can  scarcely  conceive,  not  knowing  how  they  are 
inflamed.  It  is  imagination  of  course  to  which  that 
horrible  office  pertains.  Even  on  earth  imagination  may 
gain  a  dangerous  ascendency  ;  but  in  hell  it  wields  a 
terrible  sway.  It  becomes  a  monster  of  tyranny  here, 
the  soul  being  its  helpless  prey. 

Nothing  more  easy  after  all  than  to  clothe  gloating 
fancy  with  a  certain  amount  of  reality  ;  bring  the  con- 
scious will  to  bear,  and  you  have  your  desire — after  a 
fashion — the  table  to  glut  at,  the  wine,  the  dice,  the 
handsome  woman  you  covet.  Hell  is  full  of  such  things. 
But  all  is  worse  than  illusion.  Oh,  let  me  be  silent  !  It 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  209 

is  adding  mockery  to  torture.  You  understand  me,  I 
think.  The  crime  of  Ixion  and  the  fiery  wheel  of  his 
agony  form  together  a  true  symbol  of  the  condition  of 
multitudes  of  the  lost. 

Can  you  doubt  that  I  am  referring  to  my  own 
experience?  Have  I  not  told  you  that  I  was  a  man 
of  sensual  bent,  and  a  slave  to  passion  ?  Do  you 
imagine  that  either  is  mortified  here  ?  Ah,  let  me 
refrain  ! 

I  am  no  better  than  others  here,  except,  perhaps, 
that  at  times  I  am  overwhelmed  with  shame.  How  is  it 
possible  for  one  who  loved  Lily — who  was  loved  by  her 
— to  sink  so  low  ! 

Yet  there  is  one  difference  marking  me  out  from  at 
least  some  others.  I  have  a  sure  means  of  recovering 
myself  from  the  tyranny  alluded  to,  imagination  itself 
being  the  means  to  that  end.  Whenever  the  pure 
exalted  image  of  Lily  rises  on  my  soul,  all  evil  passions 
are  assuaged  ;  the  wild  conflagration  ceases,  and  once 
again  I  seem  a  human  soul.  .  .  . 

"I  am  so  tired,  Philip,"  she  said,  softly.  And  forth- 
with I  stopped  the  mule  that  carried  her.  As  a  tender 
mother  her  ailing  child,  I  lifted  her  from  the  saddle, 
depositing  her  gently  on  the  mossy  ground.  We  were 
near  a  bridge  leading  over  Brook  Cedron. 

"  So  tired. "  Oh,  the  sad,  sad  story  contained  in  these 
words  !  But  seventeen,  and  always  tired  !  I  had  closed 
my  heart  to  the  painful  testimony ;  I  would  not  believe 
that  so  young  a  life  might  be  taken.  Yet  I  could  not 
drivtf  anxiety  away  entirely  ;  again  and  again  I  was 
forced  to  face  the  dread  reality.  "  Life  will  probably 
ebb  away  in  hemorrhage,"  an  English  physician  at  Jaffa 
had  said.  "  Be  very  careful ;  any  exertion  or  emotional 
excitement  may  bring  it  on." 

And  I  was  careful,  keeping  her  as  the  apple  of  my 
eye.  That  journey  through  the  Holy  Land,  undertaken 
at  her  own  urgent  entreaty,  was  but  one  continuous 
attempt  to  make  her  happy.  She  was  the  centre  of  a 
circle  of  love  into  which  nothing  harmful  was  allowed  to 
enter.  That  I  served  her  was  natural.  But  Turks  and 
Bedouins  even  looked  upon  her  with  worshiping  awe. 
Ah  !  deathless  time,  love  and  pain  abounding  ! 

Wherever  we  went,  she  found  holy  memories  of  Him 


310  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

to  whom  her  heart  had  been  given  ;  He  speaking  to  her 
through  the  Bible  she  loved.  Nay,  it  was  He  that  accom- 
panied her  from  place  to  place.  Her  happiness  was 
supreme.  "  I  seem  to  be  in  heaven  already,"  she  would 
say  to  me.  To  her  the  sun  was  rising  and  setting  as  in 
a  dream,  transfiguring  all  earthly  things.  The  fleeting 
hours  to  her  were  as  moments  anticipating  eternity. 

It  came,  the  dreaded  spectre,  like  a  thunderbolt  from 
a  cloudless  sky — not  carrying  her  off,  but  leaving  me 
hopeless  with  fear. 

She  recovered  a  little,  but  what  prospect  was  there  of 
returning  health  ?  Her  mind  was  easy,  but  anxiety  with 
me  was  great.  As  a  drooping  lily  she  was,  fair  still  and 
fragrant,  holding  her  cup  prayerfully  while  she  was  able, 
but  fast  closing  her  petals  in  the  faintness  of  death.  "  Lily 
is  tired," — the  Heavenly  Gardener  was  transplanting  her 
to  His  Paradise  above. 

We  were  halting  by  the  royal  brook — Lily  remember- 
ing David  and  a  greater  King  that  passed  there.  The 
scenery  is  present  with  me  even  now — every  stone,  every 
shrub  of  that  hallowed  spot. 

Moriah  was  in  view,  where  Solomon's  temple  once 
stood,  and  that  other  temple  built  by  Herod,  where 
Omar's  mosque  now  lifts  her  minarets  proudly.  To  our 
right  lay  the  valley  of  Jehoshaphat,  deep  and  narrow,  a 
cleft  between  towering  mountains,  the  rocks  on  the  one 
side  being  fretted  with  innumerable  caves,  the  sepulchres 
of  old,  of  kings  and  prophets.  On  the  Mount  of  Cor- 
ruption to  our  left  a  poverty-stricken  Jewish  village  clings 
to  the  steep  incline.  At  our  feet  was  the  stony  b*ed  of 
Cedron,  panting  for  its  dried  up  waters  ;  the  Mount  of 
Olives  was  rising  beyond,  a  succession  of  gentle  curves, 
leading  onward  to  Gethsemane.  A  group  of  ancient 
olive  trees  marks  that  sacred  spot.  The  setting  sun  was 
casting  deep  shadows,  broken  by  streaks  of  dazzling  light, 
across  the  valley,  the  top  of  Olivet  only  glowing  with  a 
subdued  radiance  that  was  grateful  to  the  eye. 

The  place  where  we  rested  was  in  the  shade  entirely. 
A  gentle  breeze,  but  cool  and  refreshing,  was  playing 
about  us.  Lily  sat  still  with  folded  hands,  looking  list- 
less ;  she  was  tired — tired  to  death  perhaps.  Her  eyes 
closed.  Oh  how  white  she  looked  !  and  pure  as  a  dying 
Madonna.  But  more  alarming  than  her  pallor  were  those 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  211 

sudden  flushes  overspreading  her  features,  leaving  her 
more  white  than  before. 

The  mule  and  his  attendant  had  composed  themselves 
to  sleep  at  a  little  distance.  "  Happy  boy  ! "  I  said, 
looking  at  him,  adding  involuntarily,  "  Happy  animal !  " 
The  Turkish  escort  engaged  for  our  safety  lay  smoking 
the  inevitable  hookah,  in  blissful  ignorance  apparently  of 
landscape  beauty  or  human  grief. 

Silence  was  becoming  oppressive.  My  Lily  was  not 
asleep,  though  her  eyes  were  closed,  and  I  turned 
to  her  gently  with  a  question  :  "  What  are  you  think- 
ing of  ? " 

"  My  sins,"  she  said,  looking  at  me. 

"  Your  sins  !  "  I  echoed,  refraining  from  what  I  was 
going  to  add,  lest  I  should  pain  her.  .  .  .  "  O  Lily,  my 
pious  child,  they  can  neither  be  grievous  nor  many." 

"Yes,  -Philip  !"  she  said  eagerly;  "there  is  no  one 
good  save  He.  We  have  all  come  short  of  the  glory, 
but  God  only  knows  how  much  we  have  sinned." 

" But  what  makes  you  think  of  sin  just  now?"  She 
looked  up  surprised.  The  gift  was  hers  at  any  time  to 
open  my  eyes.  I  knew  what  she  meant.  My  gaze  went 
abroad  over  the  peaceful  expanse.  Truly  what  spot 
could  be  more  fitted  to  convince  man  of  his  own  worth- 
lessness  ?  I  bowed  my  head  in  shame. 

"  Dear  friend,"  she  continued,  tremulous  with  emo- 
tion, "  at  this  very  moment  I  feel  reproved  ;  even  here 
wrong  thoughts  will  assail  the  heart.  A  sudden  longing 
had  come  to  me  that  I  might  be  spared  a  little  longer, 
but  I  forgot  to  add,  '  Thy  will  be  done  ! '  You  see  that 
was  wrong,  for  we  ought  to  yield  ourselves  to  Him 
entirely,  believing  that  our  Father  knows  best,  else  we 
cannot  be  His  children." 

An  indescribably  bitter  feeling  of  anger  and  self-will 
rose  in  my  heart  ;  what  knew  I  of  giving  up  the  will  for 
the  gain  of  sonship  ?  My  eye  involuntarily  sought  the 
Mussulman,  and  the  evil  spirit  said  :  "  Better  be  a  Turk 
outright  !  "  But  chastening  sorrow  was  at  hand,  and  I 
said  gently  : 

"  Surely  you  may  live  ;  do  not  sadden  your  heart  with 
such  thoughts.  O  Lily,  my  good  little  sister,  my  own, 
think  of  ftie  love  that  would  keep  you  here  ! " 

"  I  do,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  like  sunbeams  breaking 


212  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

through  clouds,  "  love  here  is  precious,  but  a  better  love 
awaits  me  beyond." 

Another  pause,  but  I  would  not — I  could  not  be  silent, 
and  I  continued  : 

"  The  desire  to  live  cannot  be  wrong,  sweetest  Lily. 
Let  it  be  very  present -with  you,  and  you  will  see  it  ful- 
filled. God  Himself  has  planted  the  love  of  life  in  our 
hearts  ;  it  cannot  be  sinful,  then,  to  cling  to  it.  Do  not 
wrong  yourself ;  there  never  was  a  less  self-willed  being 
than  you,  so  unselfish  and  good." 

"  So  the  brother's  love  would  think,"  she  said,  looking 
at  me  tenderly  ;  "  but  you  are  right  in  this  ;  my  feelings 
were  not  selfish  though  self-willed.  It  is  not  for  my  own 
sake  I  would  wish  to  live — I  was  thinking  of  others. 
Philip,  darling,  can  you  understand  that  I  would  like  to 
live  for  your  sake  ?  I  know  you  will  miss  me  more  than 
any — you,  my  one,  my  truest  friend  ! " 

Had  I  been  alone  with  her  I  would  have  sunk  at  her 
feet  in  a  transport  of  worship  ;  as  it  was  I  could  but 
stammer  :  "  Lily,  I  shall  die  if  you  leave  me  !  " 

Again  we  spoke  not.  But  silence  now  was  sweetened. 
I  had  seen  heaven  opened. 

Her  face  was  veiled  in  solemn  seriousness.  I  knew 
she  was  battling  it  out  in  her  soul.  But  even  the  trouble 
of  conflict  could  not  cloud  her  trust  in  God.  She  saw 
the  palm  of  victory,  reaching  forth  her  hand  to  seize  it, 
for  I  heard  her  murmur  :  "  Thy  will,  Lord,  not  mine  !  " 

Yet  the  crown  was  not  fully  hers  at  that  moment,  it 
seemed  ;  she  rose  suddenly,  saying  with  quivering  lips  : 
"  It  must  be  sin  which  prevents  the  full  gift  of  peace. 
Surely  it  is  wrong  to  cling  to  life  !  .  .  But  I  am  ready 
to  go.  .  .  .  and  I  feel  stronger  now.  Let  us  move  on." 

I  took  hold  of  her  hand  with  a  gentle  pressure,  saying  : 
• — I  know  not  how  I  could  frame  such  words  ! — "  Lily, 
my  own,  it  is  not  the  world  you  feel  bound  to — and 
surely  such  love  as  yours  is  far  from  sin  !  How  can  you 
feel  guilty  and  troubled  ?" 

She  looked  at  me,  with  a  heavenly  light  gleaming  in 
her  eyes.  I  felt  it  at  the  time,  but  understood  not  such 
beauty,  not  knowing  the  victory  it  promised. 

"  I  do  feel  sinful,  but  not  troubled,"  she  said,  "  for 
I  can  trust  Him,  and  He  knows  it.  .  ^  .  Look, 
Philip,"  she  continued,  turning  to  the  dned-up  brook^ 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  213 

''can  you  count  these  pebbles,  great  and  small?  Innu- 
merable as  they,  are  the  sins  of  the  world.  But  the  foot 
of  Him  has  passed  here  when  He  sorrowed  even  unto 
death.  The  sins  of  all  were  laid  upon  Him — mine  too. 
He  has  taken  them  away  ;  they  cannot  trouble  me  !  " 

We  went  on  beyond  Cedron,  ascending  Olivet,  and 
reaching  Gethsemane.  The  garden  is  enclosed  with  a 
low  stone  wall,  and  contains  eight  olive  trees  of  great 
antiquity.  The  spot  where  Judas  betrayed  his  Lord  with 
a  kiss  is  fenced  in  separately,  and  even  the  Turks  deem 
it  accursed.  We  stopped  beneath  those  trees,  the  same, 
no  doubt,  which  saw  the  Saviour  wrestle  in  awful  agony 
when  He  drank  the  cup  that  men  might  go  free. 

Lily  was  kneeling  in  earnest  devotion,  praying  for 
submission,  and,  I  doubt  not,  praying  for  me.  Peace 
was  given  her  there  and  then,  shining  like  a  halo  from 
her  brow  as  she  rose — "  Thy  will  be  done  !  " 

But  my  soul  was  barren  of  prayer.  I  felt  ready  to 
curse  my  weakness  which  had  agreed  to  this  pilgrimage 
through  the  Holy  Land.  I  longed  for  our  far-off  home  ; 
life  there,  I  imagined,  might  have  smiled  upon  us, 
whereas  death  stared  me  in  the  face  at  every  turn  on  the 
sacred  soil. 

We  took  the  shorter  way  back,  passing  St.  Stephen's 
Gate,  and  following  the  Via  Dolorosa  through  the  town. 
That  road  is  full  of  holiest  reminiscences  ;  the  praetorium 
where  the  crown  of  thorns  was  platted  and  the  Holy  One 
mocked  by  sinful  men — the  "  Ecce  Homo  "  arch,  where 
Pilate  pointed  to  the  Saviour  saying,  "  Behold  the  man  ! " 
— the  spot  where  Mary,  meeting  her  divine  Son  as  He 
carried  the  Cross,  fainted  for  grief — and  that  other  spot 
where  the  Lord,  turning  to  the  wailing  women  that 
followed  Him,  said  :  "  Daughters  of  Jerusalem,  weep 
not  for  me,  but  weep  for  yourselves  and  for  your  chil- 
dren ! " — and  lastly,  the  place  where  the  saintly  Veronica 
wiped  His  holy  forehead  with  her  veil.  Here  we  turned 
aside  ;  but  the  road  leads  on  to  Calvary. 

This  then  was  the  Via  Dolorosa  !  A  road  of  sorrows 
for  me  as  well.  But  not  of  Him  I  thought  who  once 
went  this  way  as  the  Lamb  to  be  slain.  I  grieved  for 
myself  only,  and  not  a  thought  of  comfort  I  found  on 
that  road.  How,  then,  should  I  be  comforted  here  ? 


214  LETTERS    FROM     HF.I.L. 

It  seems  strange  that  T  never  thought  of  visiting  the 
so-called  city  of  the  Jews,  which  is  one  of  the  greatest 
sights  in  hell.  It  is  not  spoken  of  as  Jerusalem  here  ; 
but  I  doubt  not  it  is  the  actual  city  which  bore  that  name 
on  earth.  At  any  rate,  I  can  never  think  of  it  without 
calling  to  mind  the  city  I  knew. 

A  burning  desire  laid  hold  of  me  suddenly  to  go  to 
Jerusalem.  What  though  it  was  a  town  of  sorrows  to 
me,  I  had  Lily  there.  It  seems  in  my  power  once  again 
to  see  the  places  I  visited  with  her  ;  to  traverse  the  nar- 
row valley  of  Jehoshaphat ;  to  rest  by  the  bridge  leading 
over  Cedron  ;  to  follow  the  road  of  sorrows  from  Gab- 
batha  to  Golgotha  ;  and,  if  so  minded,  to  lay  me  down 
by  the  way  at  the  rich  man's  gate — another  Lazarus. 

And  yet  if  that  city  be  Jerusalem  in  truth,  it  must  be  a 
city  ruined  and  undone.  There  must  be  a  great  differ- 
ence between  Jerusalem  of  old  and  Jerusalem  after  its 
fall.  But  what  is  that  to  me  ?  Whatever  the  city  may 
have  come  to  here,  it  cannot  be  so  utterly  changed  that 
I  shall  not  recognize  the  places  I  once  saw  with  Lily  by 
my  side. 

I  cannot  rest ;  and  though  light  be  fast  decreasing,  I 
am  urged  to  go.  What  though  it  be  but  vain  imagin- 
ings which  drive  me  thither,  there  is  a  miserable  satis- 
faction in  obeying  the  behest. 

But  let  me  make  inquiries  first  concerning  that  strangest 
of  cities.  Far  away  though  it  be,  surely  there  are  people 
here  who  can  tell  me  something  about  it ! 


LETTER   XXVIII. 

FAR  away  and  separated  from  the  continent  of  hell  by 
an  immeasurable  waste,  lies  the  great  city  of  the  Jews — 
a  world  apart.  And  there,  in  perpetual  cycles,  the  dread 
history  repeats  itself,  from  the  catastrophe  of  Golgotha 
to  the  final  destruction.  Upon  the  sacking  of  Jerusalem 
the  whole  is  engulfed  in  darkness  ;  but  daylight  reappear- 
ing, the  wheel  of  history  has  run  back,  once  more  to 
begin  the  awful  period. 

Any  one  entering  the  city  as  the  night  is  dispelled  finds 
the  Jewish  people  overwhelmed  with  horror  at  the  recent 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  2Tg 

deed.  The  awful  words  keep  sounding  about  them  : 
"  His  blood  be  on  us  and  on  our  children  !  "  They  seem 
aware  that  a  terrible  thing  has  been  done — that  a  terrible 
retribution  is  at  hand.  Jerusalem  trembles.  Those  who 
have  taken  part  in  bringing  about  that  most  fearful  of 
crimes  ever  perpetrated  by  man,  but  whose  consciences 
are  not  seared  entirely,  raise  the  question  whether,  after 
all,  He  was  the  Son  of  God  whom  they  crucified  ;  they 
smite  upon  their  breast  and  rend  their  garments. 

Even  the  chief  priests  and  elders,  hardened  though  they 
be,  are  disturbed.  But  they  flatter  themselves  with  the 
consolation  that  the  sepulchre  is  made  sure.  As  the  great 
Sabbath  breaks,  behold  them  going  forth  to  the  garden 
with  Caiaphas  at  their  head.  Pale  are  their  faces  and 
bloodshot  their  eyes  ;  they  grind  their  teeth,  but  Satan 
upholds  them  !  The  three  crosses  from  Golgotha  look 
down  upon  them  ;  but  not  one  of  those  men  dares  lift 
an  eye  to  the  place  where  they  hanged  Him  on  the  tree. 
Where  is  their  priestly  dignity  ?  See  how  they  snatch 
up  their  long  clothing  and  hasten  apace  to  the  tomb  ! 

Having  reached  it  they  seem  satisfied  :  it  is  all  as  it 
should  be.  The  watch  is  there,  the  seal  untouched,  and 
the  stone  in  its  place. 

The  great  Sabbath  has  come.  But  never  was  there 
less  of  Sabbath  joy  in  Jerusalem.  A  cloud  is  upon  the 
people  ;  they  all  wish  the  festal  time  were  past.  Their 
thoughts  roam  away  from  symbolic  action.  The  un- 
leavened bread  has  lost  its  sweetness  ;  the  blood  of  the 
paschal  lamb  is  clotted  in  their  hands  as  they  endeavor  to 
put  it  upon  the  lintel  of  their  houses.  The  angel  of 
death  does  not  pass  by  ;  he  is  among  them  ;  they  know 
it  in  their  hearts. 

But  see,  they  shake  off  the  stupor.  As  a  stroke  of 
lightning  the  news  has  fallen  upon  them  that  the  Cruci- 
fied One  has  risen.  The  words  of  life  sound  as  a  death- 
knell  in  their  ears.  But  is  it  true?  Corroborative 
evidence  is  loud  on  all  sides  ;  there  is  no  gainsaying  the 
wondrous  event.  They  hasten  towards  the  sepulchre. 
It  is  empty,  and  the  stone  rolled  from  the  door. 

Pilate  is  one  of  the  very  first  to  whom  the  news  is 
taken.  His  evil  conscience  has  told  him  to  expect  the 
worst ;  and  lo,  the  worst  has  happened  !  There  is  a 
God  to  raise  the  righteous,  even  from  the  grave,  and  to 


2l6  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

i 

destroy  the  workers  of  iniquity.  Pilate  trembles  at 
every  sound  ;  each  moment,  he  thinks,  must  bring  the 
avenger  to  his  door.  He  looks  for  his  wife,  the  abject 
coward,  and  hears  her  cry  :  "  My  dream — O  my  dream  ! 
Alas,  that  thou  deliveredst  this  Just  One  into  their  hands  !" 

But  the  high  priests  and  elders  are  not  so  easily 
daunted.  They  quickly  spread  the  tale  that  the  body  of 
the  Nazarene  had  been  stolen  away  by  His  disciples, 
who  invented,  they  said,  the  story  of  His  resurrection. 
They  bribed  the  watchmen  to  accuse  themselves  before 
Pilate  of  having  slept  at  their  post ;  and  the  cowardly 
governor  is  glad  to  accept  the  lie,  thrusting  the  unhappy 
men  into  prison  to  ease  his  mind. 

But  the  marvelous  account  is  not  so  easily  suppressed. 
Again  and  again  it  is  said,  the  Son  of  Man  is  risen 
indeed,  and  has  been  seen  by  many !  And  the  chief 
priests  know  not  how  to  help  themselves  ;  the  high 
council  forbids  the  very  mention  of  Him  who  was 
crucified. 

By  degrees  the  terror  lessens  ;  life  in  the  city  runs  its 
wonted  course.  Like  startled  sheep  the  people  follow 
their  accustomed  leaders,  and  these  fail  not  to  apply  the 
balm  of  self-righteousness  to  every  wound.  Hypocrisy 
flourishes  yielding  the  fruits  of  death.  The  whited 
sepulchres  spread  the  corruption  hidden  within,  and 
soon  the  whole  body  of  the  people  has  sickened  with 
uncleanness.  It  is  fast  becoming  a  dead  carcass,  and 
the  eagles,  the  worms,  will  have  it  for  their  prey. 

Pilate  has  disappeared.  There  have  been  other  gov- 
ernors after  him,  more  capable  of  ruling  than  he.  And 
the  people  find  it  out  to  their  hurt.  They  are  a  butt  to 
cruelty  and  derision,  till  they  can  no  longer  bear  it.  The 
flames  of  insurrection  shoot  aloft,  the  heated  passions 
breaking  loose  ;  but  Jerusalem's  worst  enemy  is  within 
her  own  walls — the  fury  of  discord.  Wildly  the  people 
rave  against  each  other  ;  no  crime  so  hideous  but  it  is 
committed  against  very  brothers.  Jerusalem's  last  hour 
is  at  hand.  The  enemy  storms  her  walls,  breathing  ven- 
geance and  destruction  ;  the  end  has  come  of  trouble  as 
of  hatred — an  awful  end.  The  horrors  of  that  siege 
have  never  been  equaled. 

A  night  of  death  envelopes  the  scene  ;  the  history  is 
played  out,  to  begin  again  with  each  recurring  dawn. 


LETTERS   FROM    HELL.  217 

The  day  was  far  advanced  when  I  entered  the  city. 
The  final  catastrophe  was  at  hand.  The  enmity  within 
had  reached  its  height ;  hopeless  discord  was  rampant. 
Hypocrisy  and  hatred  against  the  common  enemy  with- 
out were  the  only  bonds  uniting  the  seething  mass. 
Deceit,  treachery,  unchaste  living,  perjury,  murder,  and 
all  manner  of  sorcery,  showed  their  unblushing  front. 
And  yet  to  outward  appearance  it  continued  the  proud 
city  of  David.  Gloriously  as  ever  the  holy  hill  of  Zion 
lifted  her  battlements,  and  on  Moriah  rose  the  temple  in 
splendor  unsurpassed.  Piety  in  long  garments  stood 
about  the  streets,  making  prayers  for  a  pretence  :  crowds 
of  people  passed  to  and  fro  from  the  synagogues. 
Devoutness  in  fact  made  itself  conspicuous  everywhere. 
Among  the  pious  inscriptions  adorning  the  dwellings 
by  way  of  proving  the  peculiar  sanctity  of  their  inhab- 
itants, I  was  struck  with  one  especially  which  occurred 
far  oftener  than  any  other,  so  that  I  needs  must  take 
it  as  significant — Godliness  is  gain  !  It  seemed,  indeed, 
as  if  the  people  were  running  after  both  these  jointly, 
looking  upon  godliness  as  a  means,  upon  gain  as  the 
coveted  result,  and  deeming  no  cunning  too  great  to 
obtain  it. 

My  heart  quaked  as  I  stole  through  the  crowded 
streets.  This,  then,  was  Jerusalem  !  Oh  how  different 
from  the  city  I  had  known,  and  yet  how  like  !  It  was  the 
same  old  Jerusalem  of  the  time  when  the  Saviour  went 
about  in  it  teaching  and  healing.  The  Saviour — ay,  at 
every  step  the  thought  of  Him  rose  to  my  mind,  to  the 
forgetting  even  of  Lily.  Here  surely  there  must  be 
men  who  can  tell  of  Him.  But  first  of  all  I  would 
follow  that  road  from  Gabbatha  to  Golgotha — alas,  with 
other  feelings  than  might  have  been  possible  on  earth  ! 
I  needed  a  guide,  and  stopped  the  first  Jew  I  met  on  the 
way.  But  he  broke  from  me  gruffly  with  a  sneer,  so  did 
another,  and  yet  another.  And  presently  I  was  buf- 
feted on  even  mentioning  the  Via  Dolorosa.  I  suppose 
they  took  it  for  Latin  and  believed  me  to  be  a  Roman. 
At  first  I  saw  in  their  rudeness  merely  their  probable 
dislike  to  me  as  a  stranger;  before  long,  however,  I  could 
not  but  accept  the  fact  that  hi  all  that  city  no  one  could 
be  found  who  had  any  knowledge  concerning  the  Son  of 
Mary.  He  was  forgotten — forgotten  entirely.  False 


2l8  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

prophets  had  risen  in  His  stead,  to  whom  they  had 
listened. 

There  was  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  try  and  find  the 
way  unaided. 

I  turned  away  in  the  direction  of  Brook  Cedron,  find- 
ing the  very  place  by  the  bridge  where  once  I  rested  with 
Lily.  On  that  spot  I  would  rest  me  now — alas,  rest  I 
could  not ;  I  only  stopped  ! 

There  I  sat,  silent  and  alone,  but  content  was  far 
away.  Memories  of  Lily  were  neither  more  vivid  nor 
more  real ;  longing  only  was  increased  tenfold.  I  had 
been  anxious  to  revisit  the  holy  scenes,  and  found  them 
fraught  with  disappointment.  But  since  existence  to  me 
was  one  great  disillusion,  what  mattered  it !  Jerusalem 
was  but  a  grave,  forsaken  of  the  Spirit,  estranged  from 
God,  a  prey  to  hatred,  a  dead  body  given  over  to  the 
undying  worm.  The  souls  peopling  it  were  the  ghosts 
of  an  awful  past,  living  in  the  destruction  they  had  called 
down.  What  could  I  have  found  there  to  yield  me  even 
a  shadow  of  content  ?  I  had  come  thither  to  find  myself 
in  a  like  damnation.  Fool  that  I  was  to  expect  it  other- 
wise !  But  we  never  learn  by  experience  ;  we  did  not  on 
earth — we  cannot  in  hell ! 

Faint  at  heart,  I  groveled  my  way  back  to  the  city, 
and  came  upon  scenes  of  excitement.  A  new  governor 
had  arrived,  the  last  but  one  appointed  by  Rome,  and 
was  making  a  splendid  entry. 

I  was  anxious  to  see  something  of  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  cities  in  hell,  the  city  of  Politicians,  called 
also  the  town  of  Injustice.  Thither  I  moved. 

On  the  road  I  met  the  strangest  procession — a  most 
extraordinary  machine  being  wheeled  along  by  a  rabble 
conspicuous  for  scarlet  caps,  and  howling  frightfully. 
On  the  top  of  the  structure  I  beheld  sitting  as  on  a 
throne  a  man  wearing  the  most  elegant  apparel  of  Paris 
fashion  and  last  century  style.  The  hair  slightly  pow- 
dered and  carefully  arranged,  the  necktie  scrupulously 
white  and  embroidered,  the  velvet  coat  both  costly  and 
genteel,  the  cuffs  of  lace  setting  off  hands  delicately 
shaped  like  a  woman's,  the  silken  hose,  the  shoes  trim 
with  bow  and  buckle, — would  one  not  take  such  outward 
signs  as  the  index  of  a  disposition  fastidiously  refined  ? 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  2IQ 

But  no,  he  is  satiated  with  blood,  worse  than  Nero  him- 
self, his  triumphal  car  on  the  present  occasion  being  an 
ambulant  guillotine. 

Have  you  recognized  him  ? 

Still  thirsting  for  blood,  this  graceful  image  of  gentil- 
ity ;  but  hell  yields  nothing  for  the  quenching  of  thirst, 
not  even  blood.  He  is  always  looking  at  people's  necks, 
as  shown  by  his  compliments,  such  as  they  are.  "  Sir," 
he  says,  "  your  neck  is  very  fine.  Madam,  allow  me  to 
congratulate  you  upon  a  lovely  throat !  "  Followed  by 
his  creatures,  a  very  hangman's  company,  he  likes  to  ride 
abroad  among  the  people,  upon  whom  he  looks  as  a  kind 
of  raw  material  for  his  philanthropic  experiments.  But 
the  common  folk  make  faces  at  him,  calling  him  a  fool 
possessed  of  a  harmless  mania.  No  one  is  afraid  of  him 
now,  for  power  over  necks  is  not  given  him  here ;  the 
unsatisfied  craving  is  his  punishment  also.  Still  he  has  a 
circle  of  friends  and  followers  who  share  his  notions  with 
regard  to  the  general  rottenness  of  society  and  the  need 
of  sanguinary  revolution.  They  are  sorry  for  his  disap- 
pointment, and  whenever  he  has  fixed  upon  a  place  for 
his  beloved  guillotine,  they  very  kindly  offer  him  their 
necks  for  decapitation  ;  the  procedure,  mind  you,  being 
without  hurt  or  harm  to  themselves, — the  sort  of  thing 
which  used  to  be  done  in  Astley's  theatre.  But  their 
good-natured  make-believe  cannot  satisfy  him,  simply 
because  there  is  no  shedding  of  blood. 

It  was  a  long  journey  I  had  undertaken,  and  I  passed 
by  a  town  looking  a  very  necropolis.  Dark  and  mute  it 
rose  upon  a  dismal  flat.  No  window,  no  door,  showed 
life  within  ;  not  a  sound  was  heard,  and  though  gates 
stood  open  not  a  soul  came  forth.  Once,  twice  I  walked 
around, — not  a  living  creature  in  sight.  I  kept  wonder- 
ing, till  a  stray  ghost  explained  to  me  the  strange  appear- 
ance. It  was  the  town  of  the  Inquisition,  he  said  ; 
adding  that  not  long  since  a.  powerful  king  of  Spain, 
with  unheard  of  splendor  and  a  great  retinue,  had  made 
his  entry  into  that  town. 

"Shall  I,  or  shall  I  not?" 

I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  where  his  Catholic 
Majesty  had  gone  I  might  venture. 

But  at  the  gate  I  came  upon  a  placard  sufficiently 
startling.  Thus  it  ran  : — 


22O  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 


"AUTODAKK  OK  TECUUAR  INTEREST! 

"Whereas  his  most  Catholic  Majesty,  the  powerful  protector 
of  the  Holy  Inquisition,  has  graciously  promised  to  be  burnt 
alive,  after  most  royal  and  exquisite  torture  ;  and  whereas  six 
hundred  heretics  will  wait  on  his  Majesty  at  the  stake  :  the  sub- 
lime spectacle  of  their  witnessing  his  passing  to  the  nether  fire 
is  herewith  announced,  the  setting  in  scene  being  strictly  in  keep- 
ing with  hell." 

A  strange  announcement  to  be  sure  !  But  no  doubt 
he  had  come  to  his  own  place,  that  much-lamented  king 
of  Spain,  and  the  town  was  even  now  preparing  to  greet 
him  right  royally. 

Should  I  indeed  go  in  ?  I  hesitated  Still  I  doubted 
not  that  even  the  worst  in  that  city  might  be  borne  ; 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  that  placard  exercised  a  kind  of 
demoniac  influence  over  my  imagination.  I  must  see 
that  sight  ! 

This,  then,  was  the  second  "  holy "  city  I  had  the 
honor  of  visiting,  and  in  truth  there  is  a  peculiar  like- 
ness between  them.  What  the  City  of  Destruction  is  to 
the  Jewish  people,  the  town,  of  the  Inquisition  may  be 
said  to  be  to  Christendom. 

A  shudder  went  through  me  as  I  entered.  Automat- 
ically the  gates  swung  on  their  hinges,  closing  with  an 
ominous  shriek.  Those  gates,  strange  to  say,  stand 
open  like  a  yawning  grave  to  him  who  approaches,  fall- 
ing to  behind  him  who  has  gone  in.  There  I  was  in  the 
town  of  crooked  streets  and  death-breathing  atmosphere. 
The  high  houses  have  the  fewest  of  windows,  and  those 
are  provided  with  iron  bars,  prison-like.  Horror  seemed 
to  dwell  within.  Mysterious  figures  went  gliding  through 
the  gloomy  thoroughfares,  wrapped  in  long "  cowls,  and 
hoods  over  their  heads,  with  two  round  staring  holes  for 
the  eyes  ?  Are  they  dead  men  risen  from  their  graves  ? 
And  here  and  there  a  procession  meets  me,  either  of 
dismal  penitence,  offering  the  most  horrible  examples  of 
fanatical  self-torture,  or  of  thanksgiving,  more  dismal 
still,  accompanying  condemned  sufferers  to  the  scene  of 
their  public  agony.  Pomp  and  vanity  here  also,  for- 
sooth !  But  the  only  thing  which  brings  life  into  the 
stagnation  of  that  city  is  an  autodaft. 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  221 

The  inhabitants  one  and  all  are  people  who  at  one 
time  or  another  were  servants  of  the  Inquisition.  Others 
may  enter  if  they  are  so  minded,  I  myself  being  one  of 
the  few  foolhardy  who  did  so. 

This  city  of  the  Inquisition  is  as  a  grave  enclosing  a 
terrible  secret.  For  no  one  knows  who,  in  accordance 
with  the  verdict  of  an  unknown  tribunal,  shall  be  the 
next  to  be  dragged  to  most  horrible  torture.  No  one  is 
safe,  not  even  those  who  hold  high  position  in  the  mys- 
terious community — possibly  the  most  zealous  votaries  of 
a  fanatical  church.  The  very  members  of  the  secret 
tribunal  are  not  safe! — for  he  who  lately  sentenced  his 
neighbor  to  cruel  and  exquisite  torture  may  be  the  very 
one  to  suffer  next.  Their  fate  lays  hold  of  them  secretly 
and  swiftly — fate  ?  nay,  but  a  just  retribution.  They  are 
dragged  from  their  hiding-places  and  brought  to  the  bar. 
They  shall  give  an  account  of  their  faith.  They  are 
utterly  unable  ;  no  one  can  do  so  in  hell.  They  are 
judged  accordingly  ;  but,  be  it  noticed,  their  very  judges 
are  equally  unable  to  confess  their  faith. 

And  now  for  torture!  Whatever  of  horror,  of  cruelty, 
has  been  invented  on  behalf  of  the  Inquisition,  is  all 
known  here  and  applied  to  the  fullest  extent.  The 
victims  are  disembodied  spirits  :  true,  but  their  imagina- 
tion is  keenly  alive  to  the  torment.  On  earth  they  raved 
against  hapless  humanity  ;  now  they  rave  against  one 
another,  each  being  judge  and  victim  in  turn.  They 
/wind  up  with  the  stake.  But  although  the  fire  has  no 
flame,  and  although  the  miserable  wretches  are  unable 
to  burn,  they  none  the  less  suffer  in  the  spirit  the 
excruciating  agony  of  dying  on  a  slowly  consuming  pyre. 

The  end  of  all  is  horror  unspeakable.  Souls  do  not 
live  here;  they  tremble  and  quake.  Even  I  shared  in 
the  common  sensation,  although  I  tried  to  console 
myself 'that  in  such  respect,  at  any  rate,  I  was  guiltless, 
having  never  joined,  directly  or  indirectly,  in  religious 
persecution.  But  no  matter — since  I  was  there,  I  seemed 
in  a  like  damnation. 

How  frightful  was  the  silence — the  lull  before  an 
awful  storm!  For  the  city  was  preparing  for  the  climax  of 
her  existence.  It  was  plainly  evident  that  the  autodafc 
was  about  to  take  place.  Muffled  figures  kept  gliding 
from  the  houses,  moving  away  in  a  self-same  direction. 


222  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

I  need  but  follow  them  to  reach  the  scene.  But  as  my 
soul  called  up  the  picture  of  what  was  to  be  acted  by  the 
most  Catholic  king  amid  six  hundred  heretics,  a  horror 
fell  upon  me.  I  could  not — I  dare  not — witness  the 
spectacle.  I  turned  and  fled  as  if  death  in  the  shape  of 
the  holy  Hermandad  itself  were  at  my  heels.  Happily  I 
escaped  from  the  town,  the  cold  drops  on  my  forehead, 
my  knees  shaking  with  anguish.  I  fell  in  a  swoon  as 
soon  as  the  terrible  gate  closed  behind  me. 


LETTER    XXIX. 

GIGANTIC  structures  in  earth's  parlance  may  mean  the 
Pyramids,  or  the  great  works  of  Babylon  and  Nineveh, 
or  some  Chinese  wall  of  later  date.  I  have  not  seen  any 
of  these  wonders,  or  their  ruins  either,  but  I  venture  to 
assert  that  their  importance  dwindles  into  nothing  by  the 
side  of  the  growing  edifice  called  the  city  of  Politicians 
here.  And  that  fabric  is  raised  in  a  single  day,  meaning 
the  space  between  one  hell  night  and  another.  I  call  it 
a  day  ;  it  may  be  months,  years — I  know  not.  "  City," 
let  me  tell  you,  is  an  inappropriate  term,  since,  although 
a  dwelling-place  of  many,  it  is  but  a  single  mass,  ever 
added  to,  but  never  finished.  Between  one  darkness  and 
another,  it  reaches  colossal  dimensions,  to  break  down 
at  last  in  a  heap  of  shapeless  ruin.  Night  puts  a  stop  to 
the  work,  which  is  begun  afresh  with  every  succeeding 
dawn  ;  yet  not  quite  afresh,  the  foundations  being  the 
same  once  for  all.  Indeed  it  is  they  which  cause  the 
ever-recurring  downfall ;  for,  extensive  as  they  are, 
covering  an  area  of  unlimited  vastness,  they  are  hope- 
lessly rotten.  Who  laid  them  is  a  mystery  ;  if  one  may 
guess,  it  must  have  been  Satan  himself.  But  however 
that  may  be,  those  foundations  have  survived  through 
ages  of  superstructure  and  ruin.  There  are  passages 
through  them  in  all  directions,  and  holes  where  the  work- 
ers dwell — something  like  the  catacombs. 

The  "  city  "  then  rises  on  this  base.  All  the  states- 
men in  hell  have  duty  here  as  master-builders,  and  of 
workmen  there  is  no  lack  ;  millions  there  are, — hell 
continually  disgorging  them  on  this  spot,  and  like  bees 


LETTERS    FROM    HELL.  223 

they  bring  their  building  materials  with  them,  working 
together  in  virtue  of  a  common  instinct  like  those  insects. 

You  have  heard  it  said  of  this  man  or  of  that,  that  his 
conscience  is  turned  to  a  stone.  Now  this  is  no  mere 
figure  of  speech  ;  such  sayings  embody  an  awful  truth. 
It  is  a  terrible  thing,  my  friend,  to  have  a  stone  where 
the  conscience  ought  to  be  !  Every  deceitful  act,  every 
deed  of  injustice  or  want  of  mercy,  helps  to  petrify  your 
conscience.  And  some  people's  hearts  are  so  deadened 
that  every  righteous  feeling  has  been  displaced  by  a  stone 
of  that  kind.  No  one  is  free  from  these  dead  weights, — 
no  one  who  comes  hither  at  least, — and  some  drag  such 
loads  about  with  them,  that  the  marvel  is  they  continue 
alive.  Now  this  city  is  built  of  such  stones.  Some  souls 
there  are  fohose  one  occupation  it  is  to  free  their  hearts 
of  the  petrifying  load.  Free  ?  but  it  is  hopeless  trying  ; 
and  though  stones  upon  stones  be  added  to  the  rising 
structure,  the  stony  heart  cannot  here  be  changed.  One 
finds  this  out  by  experience  only  ;  but  some  there  are,  so 
loaded  with  injustice,  and  so  anxious  to  get  rid  of  it,  that 
no  experience  will  convince  them. 

The  head  and  corner-stones  are  furnished  by  the 
master-builders,  the  former  experts  in  statesmanship.  It 
is  simply  astounding  to  behold  the  overwhelming  weights 
produced  by  men  of  their  antecedents.  Indeed,  one 
requires  the  insight  obtained  here  in  order  to  form  an 
idea  as  to  the  extent  of  treachery,  injustice,  and  subtle 
craft  they  were  capable  of  in  the  days  of  their  earthly 
life.  Among  them  are  to  be  found  the  greatest  wrong- 
doers the  world  ever  produced.  No  one  has  a  more 
unlimited  scope  for  evil  than  statesmen,  not  excepting 
kings  ;  and  their  responsibility  is  awful.  For  a  man 
might  be  born  heir  to  some  crown  and  could  not  help  it ; 
but  no  man  can  be  a  statesman  without  of  his  own  free 
will  undertaking  a  ruler's  duties.  They  knew  what 
they  engaged  in  and  have  no  excuse.  The  welfare  of 
millions  was  in  their  hand — the  power  of  blessing  or 
cursing;  and  how  did  they  use  it?  Look  at  history — 
nay,  examine  the  present  time.  They  seem  to  believe, 
these  men,  that  in  the  interest  of  politics,  as  they  call  it, 
any  amount  of  evil  doing  will  pass.  Justice  ? — it  is  an 
empty  sound.  The  welfare  of  nations  ? — the  power  of 
the  state  is  more  than  that.  They  believe  themselves 


224  LETTERS    FROM    HELL. 

exempt  from  all  laws,  moral  or  divine, — imagining  God, 
if  He  judges  them  at  all,  will  judge  them  according  to 
some  special  standard  of  right  and  wrong.  Treacherous 
dealing,  tyranny,  and  armed  force  were  their  chief  ideas 
of  governing,  no  matter  how  many  unknown  subjects 
might  suffer  cruel  hardship.  And  behold,  the  world's 
perversity  judges  them  by  the  glittering  tinsel  of  success, 
calling  him  greatest  who  out-manceuvres  all  others  in 
perfidy — diplomacy  is  the  current  expression  ;  but  things 
are  called  by  their  true  name  here.  It  is  quite  apparent 
in  hell  that  some  of  the  greatest  crimes  earth  ever  wit- 
nessed were  committed  in  behalf  of  the  so-called  higher 
arts  of  diplomacy,  and  that  some  of  the  greatest  delin- 
quents are  to  be  found  among  the  starred  and  gartered 
office-bearers  who  are  the  right  hand  of  kings; 

But  the  chief  duty  of  these  master-builders  consists  in 
seeing  the  profusion  of  material,  their  own  and  that  of 
others,  properly  disposed.  This  offers  real  difficulty  ;  for 
each  of  these  ex-statesmen  very  naturally  has  his  own 
plan  to  go  by.  No  two  of  them  ever  agree,  even  though 
they  should  find  themselves  stationed  side  by  side.  But 
sometimes  they  are  separated,  say  a  hundred  miles  from 
one  another.  Imagine,  then,  the  circumference  of  the 
city,  and  try  to  imagine  these  statesmen — one  here,  one 
there — building  away,  heedless  of  each  other.  This  is 
the  reason  why  the  state  is  never  accomplished.  I  say 
"  state,"  for  the  latent  idea  is  to  form  a  state,  and  when 
it  is  finished  to  choose  a  king.  There  are  numbers  of 
landless  sovereigns  loafing  about  the  outskirts  of  the  city, 
dreadfully  anxious  to  be  chosen.  I  have  spoken  of  those 
miserable  crown-bearers  in  a  former  letter. 

Our  statesmen  are  sufficiently  aware  of  the  difficulty  of 
their  undertaking  ;  they  are  forever  sending  depatches  in 
all  directions,  now  cajoling,  now  threatening,  as  they  hope 
to  gain  their  end.  And  their  ambassadors  creep  about 
from  one  court — I  mean  building-station — to  another; 
but  no  amount  of  diplomatic  perfidy  avails,  and  nothing 
remains  but  to  call  a  congress  at  last.  But  since  there 
is  no  neutral  ground  in  all  the  city  itself,  they  fix  upon 
a  certain  mud  island  in  the  black  river  which  laves  the 
base  of  this  building  ground.  In  order  to  gain  that 
island  they  have  no  choice  but  to  try  the  experiment  of 
swimming.  Now  one  would  imagine  our  noble  diplo- 


LETTERS     FROM     Ht.t.1,.  225 

matists  to  be  very  loth  to  let  the  filthy  water  touch  their 
august  persons.  But  far  from  it.  They  like  it !  (You 
remember  that  the  black  river  is  fed  by  all  the  refuse  of 
injustice  and  falsehood  oozing  down  from  the  world.) 
It  is  quite  a  sight,  I  assure  you,  to  see  them  sprawling 
in  the  horrible  water.  They  have  reached  their  own 
element,  it  is  plain  ;  and  like  a  set  of  schoolboys  in  a 
mill-pond,  they  flounder  about  quite  lustily. 

No  sooner  are  they  landed,  however,  than  behold  our 
dignified  statesmen  !  The  congress  is  inaugurated  with 
due  solemnity,  each  plenipotentiary  falling  into  his  place 
with  singular  adroitness,  and  agreeing  with  peculiar 
suavity  that  a  common  plan  of  action  must  be  arrived  at. 
But  there  unanimity  stops.  Innumerable  proposals  are 
made  and  rejected,  mutual  jealousy  rendering  concord 
impossible.  One  motion  presently  meets  with  accept- 
ance :  let  each  representative  try  and  work  out  his  part 
towards  the  general  aim.  Great  hopes  are  aired,  and 
the  result  is  truly  ridiculous.  The  completed  scheme 
proves  the  most  deplorable  farrago  ;  but  no  one  is  pre- 
pared to  give  up  his  individual  position,  and  the  end  is 
confusion.  Vainly  the  most  impressive  speeches  are 
delivered  about  the  incomparable  benefits  of  simple 
honesty  in  politics  ;  about  the  infernal  balance  of  power, 
without  which  the  greatest  revolutions  and  most  hopeless 
complications  are  to  be  dreaded  ;  about  the  eternal  laws 
of  the  nature  of  things  ;  about  the  duties  of  politics  in  a 
beneficent  sense,  and  the  moral  power  of  the  ruling  creed 
in  modern  times,  which  brands  with  infamy  mere  brutal 
force  ;  about  the  high  state  of  culture  arrived  at  in  this 
nineteenth  century,  which  alone  ought  to  govern  all 
social  questions ;  about  principles  of  action  which  should 
not  be  set  aside  even  in  hell ;  about  sacred  rights  which 
must  be  upheld  at  any  sacrifice.  In  short,  no  parliament 
on  earth  could  develop  greater  bombast  than  a  meeting 
of  ex-politicians  here.  But  result  there  is  none,  and 
nothing  remains  but  to  raise  the  congress. 

Before  separating,  however,  there  is  the  usual  exchange 
of  compliments — a  profusion  of  gratitude  for  mutual 
helpfulness  and  invaluable  assistance  in  unraveling  dif- 
ficult points.  The  congress,  in  fact,  is  pronounced  a 
success  ;  the  trumpets  are  sounded,  and  newspapers 
sing  paeans  to  the  deep  penetration,  the  rare  discern- 


226  LETTERS    FROM     HEtJ,. 

ment,  and  ingenious  sagacity  of  the  great  leaders  in 
whom  was  vested  the  confidence  of  nations. 

The  plenipotentiaries,  duly  elated,  retire  with  amiable 
expressions  of  friendly  feeling  on  behalf  of  their  respect- 
ive cabinets,  which,  however,  does  not  prevent  thtm,  in 
swimming  back,  from  casting  up  the  muddy  waters 
against  each  other.  So  much  for  the  congress. 

And  the  building  continues.  Time  passes.  It  is  long- 
since  the  radiance  of  Paradise  has  last  been  seen  ;  light 
is  ebbing  away.  But  they  build  and  build  out  of  their 
own  stony  hearts  and  consciences.  The  structure  arises, 
an  informal  mass ;  the  higher  it  reaches,  the  plainer 
becomes  the  fact  that  it  cannot  stand.  They  have  just 
about  attained  the  crowning  cupola,  which  is  achieved 
by  dint  of  innumerable  strokes  of  policy — when,  behold, 
the  towering  structure  collapses  with  a  thundering  crash, 
heard  in  the  farthermost  regions  of  hell!  Each  stone  is 
flying  back  to  its  owner,  and  cries  of  despair  die  away  in 
a  common  wail.  Nothing  remains  but  the  gigantic 
foundation  ;  the  builders  have  fled  in  horror,  leaving  the 
abject  kings  cowering  in  misery,  like  Marius  of  old  on 
the  ruins  of  Carthage.  It  is  night,  and  hell  is  over- 
whelmed with  the  stillness  of  death,  the  terrors  of  dark- 
ness ever  and  anon  being  broken  by  the  wailings  of 
desolate  kings. 


LETTER    XXX. 

LIGHT  has  all  but  vanished.  My  thoughts  keep 
wandering  back  to  Lily — My  one  chance  of  attaining  at 
least  a  semblance  of  peace. 

How  sweetly  she  bore  up  against  illness  while  she  was 
able  ;  what  patience,  what  fortitude  was  hers,  to  quiet 
our  apprehensions  ! 

But  she  grew  restless  at  last.  We  thought  of  return- 
ing to  Europe  as  speedily  as  possible;  she,  however, 
entreated  to  be  taken  back  to  Bethlehem,  and  we  could 
not  refuse  her.  With  all  possible  care  we  had  set  about 
the  journey,  yet  were  fearful  of  consequences  on  reach- 
ing our  destination,  though  Lily  assured  us  she  felt 
better  and  only  needed  rest. 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  227 

Hours  she  passed  reclining  on  a  little  terrace  by  the 
convent  wall,  where  I  had  spread  a  canvas  to  protect  her 
from  the  sun,  I  sitting  near  her;  indeed  I  hardly  left  her 
now,  and  may  well  say  that  I  was  sorrowful  unto  death. 
It  was  there  that,  for  the  last  time,  she  told  me  a  story, 
making  an  effort  as  though  to  prove  her  fitness.  Her 
last  story  !  It  was  not  the  effort  that  overcame  her — her 
happy  smile,  the  sweet  cadence  of  her  voice  said  so — but 
death  itself.  .  .  . 

"  The  mcvTiing  broke  ;  the  mists  of  night  that  veiled 
the  clefts  between  Olivet  and  Jerusalem  yielded  to  the 
return  of  life.  The  Apostle  James  was  coming  down  the 
mount, — he  who  was  called  the  Just,  the  brother  of  the 
Lord.  He  had  spent  the  night  communing  with  God  on 
the  mountain,  even  as  the  Master  had  been  wont.  And 
he  loved  the  spot  where  his  Lord  had  wrestled  in  agony. 

"  The  apostle  was  going  home,  but,  quitting  the  olive 
grove,  he  tarried  a  little  on  the  hillside  overlooking  the 
valley.  The  sun  was  about  to  rise,  a  fresh  wind  scatter- 
ing the  curling  mists.  Close  by  lay  the  garden  of  Geth- 
semane;  Brook  Cedron  murmured  below.  The  royal  city 
opposite  lifted  her  brow — the  proud  temple  sparkling  in 
glory — the  temple  of  which  one  stone  soon  would  not  be 
left  upon  another. 

"  But  James  hoped  to  be  spared  the  awful  sight,  for  he 
loved  his  town  and  people.  A  solemn  foreboding  told 
him  that  he  would  have  run  his  race  before  and  won  the 
crown — a  happy  foreboding,  for  more  than  town  and 
people  he  loved  his  Lord,  and  to  be  with  Him  for  ever 
would  be  the  fullness  of  joy. 

"  He  was  about  to  proceed  when  a  woman  came  up  to 
him,  young  and  fair,  but  plunged  in  grief.  She  was  but 
seventeen.  Hot  tears  ran  down  her  check,  and  she  wrung 
her  hands.  Falling  at  the  apostle's  feet,  she  implored 
him  to  pity  her.  Her  husband,  she  said,  had  been  struck 
down  by  a  wasting  fever,  and  was  fast  dying.  Physicians 
could  not  help  him,  and  they  were  very  poor.  He  must 
die,  alas,  and  they  loved  one  another  so  truly  ! 

"  The  apostle  looked  at  her  in  silence,  as  though  reading 
her  inmost  soul.  He  knew  her,  for  she  had  been  present 
repeatedly  when  he  had  proclaimed  the  good  tidings  of 
grace.  But  faith  had  not  yet -taken  root  in  her  heart; 
she  clung  to  the  world,  and  the  love  of  self  was  strong. 


228  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

It  seemed  hard  to  give  up  the  world  in  the  flower  of 
youth,  and  harder  still  to  yield  self.  The  old  man  con- 
tinued gazing  at  the  young  woman  silently.  She  felt 
the  power  of  his  look,  and  was  troubled.  For  with  all 
tenderness  there  was  in  his  eye  a  solemn  seriousness,  a 
holy  influence  over  souls  which  is  born  of  God.  At  last 
he  spoke : 

" '  Woman,  do  you  love  him  truly  ? ' 

"'Yea,  Father,  with  all  my  heart,'  replied  she'  trem- 
blingly. 

"'As  much  as  yourself?'  continued  the  apostle. 

" '  Oh  far  more  ! '  cried  she,  sobs  breaking  her  voice. 

"  '  It  is  well,  my  daughter  ;  there  is  a  means  by  which 
you  may  save  your  husband's  life.  You  may  think  it 
hard,  but  remember  it  is  the  only  means  !  Go  about 
from  house  to  house,  begging  charity  for  him  !  ' 

" '  Alas,  Father,  how  should  alms  save  him  from 
dying?' 

" '  It  is  not  alms  of  money  you  shall  ask  for,  but  alms 
of  time.  All  the  days,  or  parts  of  the  days,  which  good 
people  for  the  sake  of  charity  will  yield  out  of  their  own 
lives,  shall  be  given  to  your  husband.' 

"The  sorrowful  wife  thought  within  herself  that  at  all 
events  some  people  were  inclined  to  charity,  and  that 
most  valued  money  far  more  than  time ;  that,  while 
cleaving  to  mammon,  they  wasted  many  a  precious  day 
quite  recklessly.  She  thanked  the  apostle,  and,  gather- 
ing courage,  went  her  way. 

"  And  presently  she  was  seen  going  about  Jerusalem, 
telling  her  story  from  door  to  door  with  humble  entreaty, 
speaking  of  her  sick  husband  whom  she  loved,  and  of  the 
servant  of  God  who  had  directed  her  to  the  pity  of 
charitable  men.  '  Oh  have  mercy  on  me,'  she  cried  \ 
'  let  me  not  ask  in  vain  ;  give  me  a  day,  oh  each  of  you,, 
and  God  will  bless  you  for  ever  ! ' 

"  But  it  was  quite  hopeless.  Some  laughed  at  her,, 
requesting  to  know  if  she  were  in  her  right  mind  ;  others 
pushed  her  away  rudely  for  even  suggesting  such  a  thing  ; 
others  again  thought  it  a  good  joke,  but  preferred  not  to 
join  in  it.  Some  few,  however,  seemed  ready  to  admit 
the  possible  efficacy  of  the  remedy,  but  were  none  the 
less  unwilling  to  assist  in  procuring  the  means.  Their 
own  lives  were  precarious,  they  said  ;  they  had  much  ado 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  229 

in  order  to  provide  for  their  families,  and  should  not  feel 
justified  in  sparing  any  of  their  precious  time.  But, 
strange  to  say,  the  very  people  who  were  known  to  waste 
time  most  carelessly  seemed  the  least  willing  to  part  with 
even  an  hour.  The  poor  young  wife  grew  faint  at  heart, 
and  the  cruel  taunts  she  met  with  from  some.  ..." 

So  far  Lily,  and  no  further.  One  of  those  paroxysms 
broke  the  thread  of  her  story,  and  before  long  that  of  her 
life.  She  did  not  recover — the  power  of  life  was  gone  ; 
or  rather,  it  was  as  a  lamp  making  a  few  last  flickering 
efforts,  suddenly  going  out  in  darkness.  .  .  . 

Years  passed.  Fifteen  winters  had  gone  over  my 
head  ;  I  was  no  longer  young.  I  remembered  at  times 
Lily's  broken  story,  and  in  some  hour  of  tender  emotion 
I  was  one  day  even  prevailed  on  to  tell  it  to  a  friend, 
who  thought  it  so  admirable  that  he  fain  would  have 
known  the  whole. 

Fifteen  years  !  and  how  little  had  I  tried  to  spend  them 
in  a  manner  worthy  of  the  lovely  memory  of  her  who  was 
gone.  But,  strange  to  tell,  after  that  lapse  of  time,  a  stray 
number  of  some  periodical  fell  into  my  hands.  I  was 
startled  beyond  measure  on  noticing  a  little  story  entitled, 
"  The  begging  wife — a  legend  of  Jerusalem." 

Could  it  be  Lily's  story  ?  It  was,  indeed,  not  quite  in 
the  manner  of  her  telling,  but  unmistakably  the  same, 
and  no  other  ending  would  have  seemed  probable. 

This,  then,  is  the  continuation  : 

"  The  young  woman  came  to  the  door  of  a  rich  money- 
changer. Having  learned  her  trouble,  he  considered 
awhile,  looking  at  the  matter  in  the  light  of  a  possible 
speculation.  The  dying  man  might  have  money,  and  no 
doubt  was  prepared  to  pay  handsomely  for  what,  after 
all,  was  not  worth  a  great  sum.  How  much  would  he 
give  for  a  day  ?  a  month  ?  a  year  ?  Alas,  the  sorrowing 
wife  must  abandon  her  hopes  ! — her  husband  was  poor 
— very  poor. 

"Continuing  her  way  she  met  a  Roman  centurion. 
There  was  little  prospect  that  he,  a  heathen,  would  have 
a  heart  for  her,  the  Jewess.  But  he  looked  good-natured 
and  she  might  try. 

"  Indeed  the  centurion  understood  her  better  than  she 
expected,  for  if  he  had  not  faith,  he  had  superstition 
enough  to  make  him  credulous. 


230  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

"  '  My  poor  child,'  he  said  doubtfully,  stroking  his 
grizzly  beard,  '  I  would  fain  help  thee.  But  you  see  this 
life  of  mine  is  so  uncertain  that  I  know  not  for  a  truth 
whether  I  have  any  right  to  call  it  mine.  I  may  be  dead 
to-morrow,  and  by  Jove  it  would  be  wicked  to  grant 
away  what  I  have  not  got  !  Indeed  I  am  not  sure 
whether  it  would  not  be  robbing  Caesar  of  his  due,  for 
my  life  is  sold  to  him.  But  I  am  very  sorry  for  you, 
nevertheless  !  Shall  I  give  you  some  money  ? ' 

"  But  money  was  not  what  she  wanted  ;  she  said  so 
sadly,  and  the  centurion  went  his  way. 

"  She  next  accosted  a  well-to-do  tradesman,  the  owner 
of  a  carpenter's  shop,  employing  hundreds  of  hands. 
That  man  was  one  of  the  ten  lepers  whom  the  Lord  had 
cleansed,  and  of  whom  one  only  turned  back  to  glorify 
God  ;  but  he  was  not  that  one.  The  woman  happened 
to  address  him  with  the  self-same  words  with  which  they 
had  called  upon  the  Son  of  God — '  Master,  have  mercy 
on  us'  !  but  he  knew  no  mercy.  Turning  to  the  busy 
scene  in  his  shop,  he  answered,  '  Woman,  look  at  all  this 
work;  I  cannot  nearly  meet  demands,  and  yet  you  expect 
me  to  give  you  of  the  little  time  there  is  !  Nay,  you 
must  ask  elsewhere.' 

"  But  she  importuned  him  :  '  O  master !  for  Rabbi 
Ben-Miriam's  sake,  who  pitied  you,  pity  me  and  my 
husband  ! ' 

"  The  man  had  not  expected  to  be  thus  reminded  ; 
he  grew  red  then  pale,  but  found  an  answer  pres- 
ently : 

" '  Well,  as  you  seem  to  know  that  story,  your  request 
is  doubly  unfair.  Don't  you  see  how  much  shorter  my 
life  is  than  that  of  other  people,  since  I  can  only  be 
said  to  have  lived  from  the  day  I  was  healed  of  that 
leprosy  ?  It  is  really  too  much  to  expect  me  to  shorten  a 
life  already  shortened.  Get  thee  gone,  woman  ;  time  is 
too  precious  for  further  talk.' 

"  Having  left  the  workshop,  the  poor  wife  presently 
found  herself  near  the  temple.  Now,  filled  with  grief 
though  she  was,  she  forgot  not  to  cast  her  mite  into  the 
treasury  ;  and  going  up  she  met  the  priest  who,  having 
executed  his  office,  was  retiring  from  the  house  of  God. 

" '  Thou  God  of  Abraham  !  '  he  cried,  drawing  his 
garments  about  him  as  she  meekly  endeavored  to  kiss 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  231 

the  hem.  '  Thou  God  of  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob, 
listen  to  this  woman  !  Am  /  to  be  the  victim  of  her  mad 
request  ?  It  is  sorcery! ' 

"  '  I  am  neither  mad  nor  given  to  sorcery,'  she  urged 
humbly. 

"  '  Surely  this  is  sorcery  ! '  reiterated  the  priest,  look- 
ing at  her  disdainfully.  '  Beware,  lest  you  be  brought 
into  the  synagogue  to  be  stoned  ! ' 

"  She  next  went  to  the  house  of  a  high-born  Syrian  of 
princely  parentage,  who  had  come  to  Jerusalem  to  enjoy 
his  life.  And  he  had  enjoyed  it,  emptying  the  cup  of 
pleasure  to  the  very  dregs.  With  his  appetites  blunted, 
he  knew  no  longer  how  to  waste  his  time. 

"  She  was  admitted.  Through  an  inner  court,  a  para- 
dise in  itself,  where  statues  of  whitest  marble  gleamed 
between  dark-leaved  shrubberies,  where  fountains  played 
and  birds  united  in  chorus,  where  sweet  flowerets  steeped 
the  air  with  fragrance  ;  through  pillared  halls  hung  with 
Tyrian  purple  and  enriched  with  gold  and  ivory;  over 
floors  of  Roman  mosaic,  and  through  doors  opened  and 
shut  by  slaves  in  gorgeous  attire, — she  reached  at  last  to 
where  the  lord  of  all  this  grandeur  was  taking  his  luxuri- 
ous repose  after  the  exertion  of  the  bath.  She  found 
him  reclining  on  a  couch  with  half-closed  eyes.  An 
Abyssinian  slave,  dark  as  night,  was  cooling  the  air 
about  his  head  with  a  fan  of  peacock  feathers  ;  while  a 
Greek  girl,  fair  as  the  day,  stroked  the  soles  of  his  feet 
with  gentle  touch.  Both  these  women  were  beautiful, 
each  after  her  kind,  but  that  was  not  what  the  po6r  sup- 
plicant thought  of.  Still  less  did  she  consider  that  she 
herself,  holding  the  mean  between  Abyssinian  and 
Greek,  united  in  her  own  person  the  beauty  of  both 
night  and  day,  with  her  warm  complexion  and  her  lus- 
trous eyes — that  the  charms  of  these  women  paled  before 
hers,  like  stars  outshone  by  the  moon. 

"  '  Woman,'  said  the  young  man  with  languid  voice, '  it 
is  true,  I  care  little  for  life ;  it  is  a  miserable  farce  at 
best.  But  why  should  I  present  you  with  that  which 
hangs  heavy  on  my  own  hands  !  I  see  no  reason.  Phil- 
anthropy ?  pooh — it  is  give  and  take  in  the  world. 
Now,  what  could  you  give  me  of  pleasure  or  amusement 
that  I  have  not  tasted  to  the  full  ?  I  loathe  life  ;  go  and 
leave  me  to  myself  ! ' 


232  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

"  Crying  bitterly,  the  poor  wife  left  the  house  of  the 
Syrian. 

"  But  hers  was  a  sacred  mission  ;  she  dared  not  give 
up — not  yet  !  There  was  a  certain  ruler  who  lived  for 
his  pleasure,  and  whose  liberality  invited  others  to  share 
it.  To  live,  with  him,  meant  to  enjoy,  and,  apart  from 
enjoyment,  the  world  to  his  understanding  was  a  blank. 
He  had  known  higher  aims.  As  a  youth  he  had  observed 
all  the  commandments  and  had  been  anxious  to  inherit 
life.  He  was  that  same  young  man  who  came  to  the 
Lord  saying  :  '  All  these  things  have  I  kept — what  lack 
I  yet?'  But  He  whom  he  had  called  Good  Master  told 
him :  '  If  thou  wilt  be  perfect,  go  and  sell  that  thou 
hast,  and  give  it  to  the  poor,  and  thou  shalt  have  treasure 
in  heaven,  and  come  and  follow  me  !  '  And  that  was 
not  what  the  young  man  had  expected  ;  for  he  had 
great  possessions. 

"It  was  a  turning-point  in  his  life,  and  from  that 
moment  he  ceased  believing  in  an  inheritance  beyond 
the  grave.  He  joined  the  Sadducees,  who  said  that 
there  was  no  resurrection,  and  became  one  of  their  most 
zealous  followers.  The  poor  young  woman,  therefore, 
could  not  well  have  asked  of  one  more  unlikely  to  give. 
The  rich  man  replied  contemptuously: 

" '  How  foolish  and  surpassingly  arrogant !  I  have  but 
this  one  life,  and  do  you  expect  me  to  be  lavish  of  it  to 
any  chance  comer.  Know  that  a  day  of  my  existence 
could  not  be  paid  for  with  all  the  gold  of  Ophir  !  You 
have  mistaken  me,  my  pretty  child  ;  you  had  better 
apply  to  the  Pharisees.' 

"  For  two  full  days  she  continued  begging  from  house 
to  house,  well-nigh  exhausting  the  streets  of  Jerusalem  ; 
but  all  she  obtained  was  unkindly  speeches,  if  not  worse. 

"At  the  close  of  the  second  day  she  yielded  to 
despair,  falling  on  the  ground  by  the  gate  of  Damascus, 
tired  to  death  and  undone  with  grief.  There  she  lay 
with  a  dull  sense  of  misery.  But  suddenly  the  well  of 
her  tears  was  dried,  a  smile  like  a  gleam  of  sunshine 
lighting  up  her  grief- worn  face.  Fatigue  was  nothing 
now;  she  rose  quickly  and  went  to  where  she  knew  she 
would  find  the  apostle. 

" '  Well,  my  daughter,  and  how  have  you  sped  ? '  asked 
he,  with  loving  sympathy.  - 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  233 

"  '  Alas,  Father,  men  are  void  of  pity.  The  world  is 
evil,  and  its  sinful  desires  are  for  self  only.' 

" '  You  say  truly.     Compassion  is  with  God  alone.' 

" '  Yes,  Father,  and  to  Him  therefore  will  I  go.  No 
one  will  give  me  as  much  as  a  single  day,  and  many  days 
are  needed  to  restore  my  husband  to  my  love.  I  well- 
nigh  despaired.  But  suddenly  I  remembered  that  I  had 
a  life— and  to  judge  from  my  great  youth,  a  long  life— 
before  me.  O  man  of  God  !  tell  me,  may  I  not  give  of 
mine  own  abundance  what  hard-hearted  men  are  not 
willing  to  make  up  between  them  ?  My  husband  is  half 
my  life  to  me  ;  let  me  give  him,  then,  the  half  of  my  life. 
Let  us  live  together  and  die  together.  Or,  if  it  must  be, 
let  him  have  the  whole  ;  I  am  willing  to  die,  so  that  he 
may  live.' 

"  Thus  she  entreated,  the  tears  flowing  down  gently 
over  her  lovelit  face.  But  the  apostle  touched  her  head 
with  a  hand  of  blessing,  and  said,  deeply  moved  : 

"  '  Daughter,  be  of  good  cheer  ;  thou  hast  found  grace 
in  the  sight  of  God.  Depart  in  peace  ;  thy  husband  is 
given  thee,  and  ye  shall  live  together  ! ' ' 

This  is  the  story — Lily's  last.  Ask  me  not  to  describe 
to  you  the  impression  it  made  on  me.  I  felt  as  though 
Lily  indeed  were  speaking  to  me  from  another  world.  My 
tears  fell  on  the  page  and  I  bowed  my  head,  sorrowing 
not  so  much  for  Lily  as  for  myself. 

One  thing  I  felt  certain  of  even  then.  Had  the  choice 
been  given  me,  I  would  gladly  have  divided  my  life  with 
her;  ay,  selfish  as  I  was,  I  believe  I  could  have  given  up 
the  whole  to  save  hers.  For  I  did  love  her!  But  now 
what  use  was  the  story  to  me,  save  that  it  moved  my 
tears — a  few  tears  which  I  was  ashamed  to  show. 

I  endeavor  to  conclude  this  letter  by  the  fast-failing 
light.  I  tremble — I  tremble,  at  the  coming  darkness. 
This  fear,  I  suspect,  is  chiefly  born  from  a  feeling  that  a 
night  to  come — we  know  not  how  soon — will  usher  in  the 
day  of  judgment.  Ah,  fearful  night,  that  will  bring  us 
to  the  day  when  the  Son  of  Man  shall  come  in  the  clouds 
of  heaven! 

Lost.' — it  is  a  terrible  word,  enclosing  all  the  horrors 
of  hell.  *  Am  I-  lost — lost  forever  ?  Not  yet,  the  forever 
is  to  come,  says  a  voice  within.  But  again,  is  there  hope  ? 


234  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

is  there  a  possibility  of  being  saved  ?  I  cannot  say. 
Both  yes  and  no  seem  beyond  me.  Sometimes  I  do  try 
and  cling  to  a  faint  shadow  of  hope.  But  it  darts 
through  my  soul  as  a  flash  of  lightning;  I  am  utterly 
unable  to  hold  it  fast.  At  times,  again,  when  I  have 
gone  through  seasons  of  deepest  suffering,  a  sudden  calm 
sinks  down  upon  me.  Dare  I  think  it  healing  peace  ? 
But  no  sooner  am  I  aware  of  it  than  it  is  gone,  and  I 
even  doubt  that  it  was. 

Of  course  there  can  be  no  such  thing  as  conversion  in 
hell.  But  I  keep  asking — might  it  not  be  possible  that 
all  these  terrible  sufferings,  both  of  retrospect  and 
of  present  reality,  had  power  to  prepare  the  soul ;  that 
perchance  at  the  moment  when  it  is  called  out  to  appear 
at  the  great  judgment,  it  will  flee  to  the  Saviour  and 
clasp  His  feet  for  mercy  and  peace  ?  And  if  it  were  so, 
what  if  it  were  thousands  of  years  -hence,  or  tens  of 
thousands,  how  infinitely  precious  were  this  hope  !  Let 
me  suffer,  however  long,  if  so  great  a  salvation  were 
possible  in  the  end. 

Lily !  ah,  I  know  that  she  loves  me,  with  a  heavenly 
tenderness  akin  to  the  Saviour's  for  His  own.  And  if 
the  power  of  love — that  wondrous  mystery — be  more  than 
a  mere  fable,  there  is  at  any  rate  this  one  bond  left 
between  me  and  life.  For  I  know  my  Lily ;  that  bond 
will  never  break  in  all  eternity.  But  a  bond  which  will 
neither  break  nor  bring  about  union  surely  cannot  exist 
in  the  sight  of  heaven  ! 

And  again,  could  Lily  be  happy — enjoy  salvation  with- 
out me  ?  That  is  another  question.  Can  she  be  content 
to  live  when  I  am  lost  ?  And  will  God  deny  her  what 
she  loved  most  on  earth,  what  even  now  in  heaven  she 
loves  most,  next  to  Him  ?  I  cannot  believe  it.  So  this 
leaves  me  with  a  hope — a  hope  centred  in  Lily.  Not 
because  she  has  power  to  save  me,  but  because  she  had  beea 
appointed  to  lead  me  to  the  feet  of  the  Saviour.  Perhaps. 
— perhaps  it  will  be  given  her  to  do  so  in  a  future  age. 
She  may  yet  show  me  the  Cross,  even  as  I — all  unworthy 
— showed  it  to  her  when  she  died.  Did  she  not  say  vith 
her  last  breath  that  we  should  meet  again  ?  And  nth 
this  sure  hope  she  fell  asleep  in  peace  !  Is  it  possible 
that  God  would  have  let  her  leave  me  with  a  peace 
founded  on  an  untruth,  a  miserable  delusion,  even  at  the 


LETTERS    FROM     HELL.  235- 

soletnn  moment  of  entering  His  presence  ?  Surely  it  is 
impossible.  So  the  conclusion  seems  to  lie  very  neart 
but  I  dare  not — I  dare  not  draw  it ! 

Again,  also — the  whole  of  hell  is  burthened  with  a 
feeling,  veiled  and  but  dimly  understood,  that  there  is  a 
possibility  of  redemption  before  the  final  word  is  spoken, 
when  all  is  at  an  end.  Hope  raises  her  front,  however 
feebly — yea,  a  great  hope.  And  surely  God,  being  what 
He  is,  could  never  let  millions  of  miserable  souls  feed  on 
that  streak  of  light  if  it  were  mere  delusion — surelyv 
surely  not !  He  is  the  God  of  justice,  and  we  receive 
the  due  reward  of  our  deeds  ;  but,  again,  He  is  the  God 
of  mercy  and  unspeakable  tenderness,  who  can  never 
delight  in  our  misery.  And  He  is  the  God  of  truth  ;  He 
cannot  let  us  feed  on  a  lie  !  And  yet,  is  it  not  possible 
also  that  delusion  is  part  of  the  punishment,  being,  like 
everything  else,  the  outcome  of  a  sin-deluded  life  ?  Ah> 
woe  is  me,  where  is  that  hope  which  but  a  moment  since 
illumined  my  soul  as  with  a  reflection  of  eternity  ?  it  is 
gone  —  gone,  like  a  false  dawn  swallowed  up  in 
night !  .  .  .  . 

I  give  up.  My  heart  would  break,  but  nothing  ever 
breaks  here.  Hearts  here  are  strong  to  bear  any  amount 
of  misery. 

No,  we  are  not  so  fortunate  as  to  break  our  hearts.  I 
was  thinking  of  something  else.  .  .  .  There  may  be 
a  hope  left — nothing  certainly  could  be  much  worse. 
.  .  .  Things  are  desperately  fast  here,  and  not  made 
for  rupture.  All  is  cause  and  effect,  past  act  and  conse-* 
quence.  Indeed,  since  the  word  "  hell  "  seems  to  have 
become  objectionable  with  well-bred  people,  let  me  sug- 
gest their  calling  this  place  The  World  of  Consequences  ! 

Have  you  any  idea  that  I  am  writing  in  an  agony  of 
despair  ?  You  would  shrink  back  from  me  in  horror  could, 
you  see  me,  though  perchance  you  still  call  me  friend.. 
May  heaven  preserve  you  from  ever  seeing  me  ! 

But  I  forget,  I  was  trying  to  finish  this  letter:  It  may 
be  long,  very  long,  before  you  hear  of  me  again,  if  ever! 
I  still  will  call  you  friend,  yet  it  will  be  natural  that  if  all 
break,  friendship  too  must  vanish. 

Farewell,  then,  my  friend.  Please  God,  we  shall  never 
meet! 


236  LETTERS    FROM     HELL. 

I  wrote  the  above  as  the  awful  night  was  spreading 
her  wings, — oh  how  I  dreaded  its  settling !  Every 
renewed  darkness  brings  new  agony,  new  despair.  And 
as  soon  as  the  light  has  vanished  entirely,  hell  is  swept  of 
everything  with  which  imagination  had  endowed  it : 
towns,  castles,  houses,  parks,  churches,  clubs,  and  all 
places  of  amusement — everything  has  vanished,  leaving 
a  desert  void,  and  souls  unclothed  of  aught  but  bare 
being.  Hell  is  then  like  a  vast  dungeon  where  man  and 
woman,  rich  and  poor,  crawl  about  in  utter  loneliness. 
While  the  light  lasted,  dusky  though  at  best  it  is,  one 
could  arrange  oneself  according  to  one's  fancy,  having 
everything  one  listed,  unreal  though  it  were — mere 
shadows  of  thought  :  still  it  is  a  kind  of  occupation  to 
surround  oneself  with  imagined  possessions ;  but  this 
terrible  night  admits  of  no  such  jugglery.  It  leaves  me 
naked,  poor,  forsaken,  homeless,  friendless— a  prey  to 
bitter  reality.  I  shrink  together  within  my  miserable 
self,  not  knowing  where  I  am,  or  who  may  be  near  me. 
Nor  do  I  care  to  know,  filled  with  the  one  thought  that 
I  am  in  the  place  of  lost  souls — lost  myself. 

Evil  thoughts  keep  settling  round  my  heart,  beleagu- 
ing  it  as  the  ruthless  Romans  did  the  unhappy  city  of 
David.  This  siege,  too,  ends  with  a  terrible  destruction, 
an  agony  of  suffering,  the  like  of  which  the  world  has 
never  seen. 

As  before,  I  passed  the  long  night  shuddering,  trem- 
bling for  outward  cold,  but  with  a  horrible  fire  within. 
You  say  in  the  world,  and  say  truly,  that  there  are  con- 
flicts in  which  even  strong  men  fail.  Alas,  the  hardest 
conflict  now  seems  a  happy  condition,  for  here  strug- 
gling is  at  an  end,  as  being  too  good  for  hell !  There  is 
only  raving  and  madness  here, — a  kind  of  spiritual 
suicide  even, — but  no  struggling  for  victory.  The  soul 
here  is  a  victim,  forsaken  by  the  powers  of  good. 
Every  little  devil  is  permitted  to  fasten  his  miserable 
claws  on  the  helpless  mind.  Understand  me,  it  is  a 
figure  of  speech.  There  are  no  devils  in  this  place  save 
•our  own  evil  desires,  passions,  and  sinful  thoughts. 
Satan  at  times  is  here,  but,  thanks  be  lo  God,  not  yet 
has  he  final  power  over  the  soul. 

In  this  very  night  he  was  present — come  to  look  on 
the  miserable  beings  he  delights  in  considering  his. 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  237 

Though  not  always,  yet  generally,  he  chooses  darkness 
for  his  visits.  As  a  sudden  whirlwind,  felt  but  not  seen, 
he  is  among  us,  and  hell  is  frozen  with  horror.  All  the 
millions  of  souls  then  shrink  together  in  an  agony  of 
unutterable  fear,  knowing  that  one  is  among  them  who 
never  knew  pity  and  ruth — the  great  destroyer,  ready  to 
destroy  them.  And  this  is  the  dreadful  thing,  that, 
though  certain  of  his  presence — ay,  feeling  it — not  one 
of  us  can  say,  see  here  !  see  there  !  You  hear  a  crack- 
ling as  of  fire — serpents  of  flame  keep  darting  across  the 
tenebrous  space,  snowing  his  path  ;  but  where  is  he,  the 
dread  enemy  ?  His  consuming  eye  at  this  very  moment 
may  be  upon  you,  gloating  over  your  trembling  soul. 

I  will  be  silent — I  cannot  dwell  on  these  horrors.  Be 
it  enough  to  say  that  again  and  again  I  felt  myself  in 
the  very  grasp  of  the  evil  one,  who  seemed  to  dally  with 
my  anguish.  It  took  all  manner  of  forms — suffice  it  to 
give  one  :  I  suddenly  felt  as  though  I  were  a  bottom- 
less ocean,  in  which  my  sins  were  swimming  about  like 
fish.  And  the  devil  sat  on  the  shore,  grinning  and 
throwing  his  lines,  using  now  this  evil  desire,  now  that, 
as  a  bait.  He  was  an  expert,  catching  fish  upon  fish. 
Suddenly  the  float  disappeared,  dragged  down  into  the 
deep — a  good  catch  no  doubt.  He  brought  it  up  triumph- 
antly— O  Lord  of  pity,  my  own  heart,  bleeding  and 
writhing  !  It  was  horrible,  horrible  !  Let  me  drop  the 
veil. 

This  too  is  imagination  of  course,  or,  at  worst,  Satan's 
own  evil  pastime  with  the  hopeless  mind.  But,  never- 
theless, what  is  there  more  real  than  death  ?  and  I 
suffered  a  hundred  deaths  in  that  night. 

At  last,  at  last — I  know  not  after  what  length  of  time 
— hell  was  given  up  again  to  its  own  state  of  misery — 
rising  to  it  with  a  gasp  as  out  of  a  fearful  dream. 

Then  I  felt  it  a  relief  almost  to  be  but  a  prey  once 
more  to  my  own  evil  thoughts.  Bad  as  it  was,  to  be  left 
to  myself  seemed  gain.  As  before,  the  whole  of  my  past 
life  was  unrolled  to  my  sight,  sin  upon  sin,  failure  upon 
failure,  gnawing  at  my  heart  till  it  was  but  a  single  fes- 
tering wound. 

But  with  all  this  suffering,  a  longing  was  blended  more 
deep,  more  burning,  that  any  I  had  felt  before.  Not  for 
the  life  behind  me, — the  world  with  its  pleasures  was 


238  LETTERS     FROM     HELL. 

dead, — but  for  a  living  soul  I  thirsted — a  soul  to  under- 
stand me.  Lily,  my  father,  Aunt  Betty — from  them  I 
was  separated  to  eternity,  a  great  gulf  being  fixed 
between  them  and  me;  but  my  mother — my  own  mother 
— there  was  only  death  between  me  and  her,  and  a  won- 
drous truth  lies  hidden  in  that  word — love  is  stronger 
than  death.  That  was  the  closest  bond  after  all — that 
between  my  mother  and  me — the  bond  of  Nature  ! 
What  in  all  the  universe  could  be  better  than  a  mother's 
love!  With  a  thirsty  longing  my  thoughts  turned  to  her 
— O  mother,  where  art  thou  ? 

And  here  again  a  great  pain  side  by  side  with  yearn- 
ing. How  badly  I  had  rewarded  her  love  in  life  !  Had 
I  not  been  her  one  and  all  ?  but  she,  in  truth,  was  very 
little  to  me.  How  wrongly  I  had  judged  her,  often 
thinking  meanly  of  her  motives,  deeming  her  cold  and 
worldly — a  selfish  nature  to  which  the  appreciation  of 
society  was  more  than  the  heart's  goodness — to  which 
Christianity  even  was  a  mere  matter  of  propriety  ;  in 
which  faith  and  charity  were  not  strong  enough  to  teach 
her  that  self  and  the  world  should  be  sacrificed,  but 
which  hesitated  not  to  sacrifice  even  the  holiest  on  the 
world's  altars  to  the  advantage  of  self  ! 

How  wickedly  I  had  thought  of  her,  ungrateful  wretch 
that  I  was!  I  grieved  for  it  now;  surely  she  had  been 
the  best  of  mothers — the  most  perfect  of  women,  loving 
and  good! 

These  painful  thoughts  unnerved  me — I  felt  weak  and 
softened.  "O  mother,  dear,  mother!"  my  heart  kept 
crying  with  the  wail  of  a  child.  I  care  not  if  you  laugh 
at  me,  but  I  had  come  to  this — I  longed  for  her  with 
the  simple  longing  of  the  hungry  babe  for  the  mother's 
breast. 

For  the  first  time  the  desire  was  strong  in  me  to  return 
to  the  upper  world — an  indescribable  power  drawing  me 
irresistibly.  The  ghost  nature  was  fluttering  within  me, 
lifting  its  wings,  urging  me  to  go;  but  my  yearning 
found  vent  in  the  cry  only,  "  Mother,  mother!" 


A  faint  streak  of  dawn.  My  eye  fell  on  a  cowering 
figure,  ill-shaped  and  moaning,  sunk  in  a  heap  not  far 
from  me.  An  impossible,  frightful  thought  stole  through 
me  at  the  sight.  ^  My  soul  heaved  like  a  storm-lashed  sea. 


LETTERS     FROM     HELL.  239 

The  figure  moved  and  turned.  .  .  .  God  in  heaven, 
that  terrible  face,  ghastly  and  distorted,  it  was  ...  it 
was  .  .  .  my  mother's  ! 

I  dashed  away  in  headlong  flight — I  could,  I  would 
not  believe  it.  ... 

But  alas,  my  friend,  what  matters  my  believing  it  or 
not — it  was  my  mother  ! 

Poor,  poor  mother  !  This  is  the  crushing  blow,  if  such 
there  be  here.  I  thought  I  had  known  the  worst — but 
this  is  awful,  awful! 

What  more  shall  I  say  ?  Words  are  powerless — the 
despair  of  hell  you  cannot  conceive.  It  were  poor  con- 
solation that,  being  equally  miserable  now,  we  might 
weep  together,  uphold  one  another,  comforting  each 
other  in  pain.  But  even  that  is  denied!  Tears  we  have 
not — sympathy  there  is  not;  at  least,  I  have  not  found  it 
— and  naturally,  since  love  is  utterly  unknown  here. 
We  can  only  cower  side  by  side,  through  ages  to  come, — 
^ach  taken  up  with  self.  Fellowship  ?  Nay,  but  it  is 
worse  than  desert  loneliness.  We  have  not  a  word  to 
say  to  one  another;  we  dread  to  look  at  each  other. 
Everything  between  us  is  cold,  dead — dead.  We  have 
our  own  agony  of  fire,  each  within  the  soul;  but  that  fire 
which  goes  forth  to  warm  another  is  as  a  burnt-out  crater 
filled  with  the  ashes  of  despair.  .  .  . 

I  can  no  more  .  .  .  fare  thee  well ! 


THE   END. 


M  A  L  A  R  I  N  E  . 

SAFE  AND  SURE  CURE  FOR 

MALARIA 

TECE    TJSEJ    OF 


MALARIA  is  a  poison  emanating  from  soils  more  or  less  rich  in 
organic  matter  and  not  devoted  to  the  maintenance  of  healthy 
vegetation.  The  essential  conditions  for  the  production  of  the 
poison  are,  decomposition  of  vegetable  organic  matter,  a  certain 
degree  of  temperature,  and  moisture.  It  exists  in  marshes  and 
swamps,  where  there  is  much  vegetable  matter  ;  in  the  soil  of 
valleys  and  ravines,  at  the  base  of  mountains,  where  surfaces 
covered  with  vegetation  have  been  temporarily  overflowed,  during 
the  drainage  of  lakes  and  ponds,  in  turning  up  the  soil  for  new 
buildings,  canals,  railroads,  etc. 

It  is  more  apt  to  manifest  itself  during  the  latter  part  of  the 
summer  and  autumo-than  any  other  period  of  the  year,  and  occurs 
after  long,  dry,  hot  spells  followed  by  warm  rains.  Winds  fre- 
quently carry  the  poison  from  one  district  to  another.  It  is  princi- 
pally inhaled  and  absorbed  by  the  pulmonary  membrane,  though  it 
may  be  taken  in  by  the  stomach,  and  not  infrequently  is  absorbed 
by  the  skin. 

Malaria,  by  its  action  upon  the  cerebro-spinal  nervous  system, 
gives  rise  to  a  class  of  disorders  known  as  Intermittent  Fever, 
Chills  and  Fever,  Ague,  Dumb  Ague,  Remittent  Fever,  Congestive 
Fever,  Enlargement  of  the  Spleen,  Congestion  of  the  Liver,  Dysen- 
tery, many  neuralgic  affections  of  an  intermittent  type,  and  the  deteri- 
orated condition  of  the  system  found  in  individuals  who  have  lived 
for  some  time  under  the  influence  of  this  miasmatic  poison. 

The  disease  manifests  itself  most  frequently  in  the  form  of  inter 
mittent  fever,  ague,  or  chills  and  fever.  Of  this  particular  variety 
there  are  several  types— viz.,  Quotidian,  when  the  paroxysm  occurs 
every  day;  Tertian,  every  other  day;  Quartan,  on  the  first  and 
fourth  days,  etc.  The  Quotidian  and  Tertian  are  the  most  fre- 
quent, Octan  or  weekly  returns  not  infrequent,  others  very  rare. 

The  symptoms  or  signs  by  which  we  may  know  malaria  is  present 
in  the  system  are  manifold.  No  disease  has.  ordinarily,  so  regular 
a  succession  of  definite  stages  as  Intermittent  Fever,  viz.,  the  cold, 
the  hot,  and  the  sweating  stage. 

THE  COLD  STAGE,  or  chill,  begins  with  languor  or  yawn- 
ing; sensation  of  chilliness  comes  on,  with  chattering  of  the  teeth, 
and  rigor,  or  tremulous  movements;  the  finger-nails  usually  become 
blue;  thirst,  loss  of  appetite,  occasional  vomiting,  headache,  de- 
pression of  spirits,  and  drowsiness;  perspiration  absent.  The 
duration  of  the  chills  varies  from  two  minutes  to  three  hours,  aver- 
aging not  more  than  forty-five  minutes. 


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